The Grave Digger

Pulling on the mud caked creased and drawn leather boots
Feet cold, atonic and rheumatic, bunions bulging, inflamed
Shabby woolen blanket tossed aside in a crumpled mass
The sun has not yet risen, the day begins without a shadow
No beaks of birds commanding chirrups of lilting or alarm
A stifling stillness as the waking world trembles, warming
Puffs of pungent briny breath passing between nidorous cuspids
Dissipating gloom drifting into a moodless morning chill
Dragging footsteps scraping seas of dew drenched blades
Where beneath the sagging sapling, a sack sits silent
As the shoveling sounds of splitting earth fall in loose rhythms
Elbows creak, hips pop and swivel, knees crackling raw and crass
Thudding soil falls and tumbles, amassing morbid mounds
Worms wriggle and writhe, tight air stinging slimy skins
Earthen apertures and widening orifices inaugurate the carcass
Linger to be lowered while the grim and grievous bow 
And wistfully weep into stained white silken handkerchiefs
But to the striking sharpened spade they mean nothing
A parcel entombed in a pine box knotted and gnarled
Inhumed into the cavernous maw, dressed and darkened  
Draped atop the kindled pyre and set aflame by arrow
Disappearing into darkly sparkling cold and choppy seas
Burned to ash and drifting into star spotted skies
Lifted high and flung across cottage dotted country sides
Body tossed shamelessly over top of collapsing city walls
Picked apart by carrion creatures tugging sinewy straps
Beyond gates guarded by dripping jaws of jewel eyed jackals
For the gallows does well to those who would do ill
Never a shortage of cadavers delivered down the hill
On wobbly wheeled canvas carts of jostling limbs and torsos
Over bumps and rutted roads, skulls split and tumbling
Halting against the boots of the lunching laborer
A pointed pause to snatch a snort of stinging sour liquor
Chewing sounds and smacking lips, clumps of soft bread
Packed against incisor gaps and washed over with saliva
As once again the dull pointed pickaxe splits the soil
Busy days of dying death make for dreary days of digging
Going all, where all must go unquestioning, irresistible
As age with its stealing steps claws us in its cold clutches
And the great wheel creaks and moans as it turns again
The fortune has been sold, the future told and set precedes you
Ineludible fate, a steady ripple across a turbid temporal tarn
Advancing unwilling faraway and mucky mist laden shores
Unfamiliar croaks of murky mysterious and glistening amphibians
Clouded retinas glowing, rustling just beyond the ring of reeds
Cloistered in shadows deep and moist amidst tangled roots
Reaching tendrils claw and creep through sand specked mud
Slimy fungus crouching in the hollows of a whispering withered log
Robed in ripened mucous membranes thick and gooey mosses
Revolting miry algae clumped in steaming heaps buzzing with insects
Stench of bubbling gases gurgling through grimey gummous ooze
Squeezed through stinking jellied gills of putrid piscine parcels
All are bound unknowing to the ever-repeating mobius
Ceaseless cyclopean cycles, cascading currents cleaving canyons
Wherein walks the grave digger, bearing artifacts of the Artifex
Mummified masterminds shambling subterranean stone corridors
Angular arcs of sunlight stabbing motes of dusty ancient air
A solemn somnolent sexton dangling ugly unwashed toes
Taking their repast and farting bluntly as they contemplate
Whom shall be next to pick up the spade and shoulder the station
Of they who embalm and entomb the stiffened lifeless husks
When into the trough they tumble themselves 
Upon their drowning dusk