This Hell Is Mine

The sun burns scorching his skin Back aching still the pickaxe continues to swing The hole grows deeper for each drop of sweat Hours pass steady till the sun finally sets Another dawn, another harsh day Weather-worn fingers digging to find their way Patiently spending their given time You might call this hell, but this hell is mine Said you might call this hell, but this hell is mine Neck burning buzzards hover above Patiently awaiting their due with unconditional love Dry lips bleached from the dust and sun Mutters a curse as the bullets go into his gun Two prayers, three, four fumbling shots All are required to finish her off In the distance faint bells chime Well, you might call this hell But this hell is mine The dust won't settle while that haunting wind blows The buzzards all gone and every trace of him wiped out but one An old pickaxe with a broken shaft Obscured by the dust like a ghost from the past with crude letters in the wood stands scrawled you might call this hell, but to me this is all

Submitted by The Void — Apr 26, 2025