Dig, dig, dig your grave.
As shovel and pick hit land.
Ten thousand strokes for a ten foot trench;
on the ledge of death you stand.
Sweat, sweat, sweat your blood;
from open wounds to the ground.
No vision of freedom’s gates.
To unbreakable chains you’re bound.
Expiring hopes, extinguished dreams;
the power to dig is what it brings.
You stopped “living” years ago.
in moments you’ll be dead but who will know?
March, march, march your corpse;
to the edge of the burial pit.
feel the machine gun fire rip through your body.
Fall forward when you’re hit.
Bleed, bleed, bleed out your life;
as you await your time to die.
Surrounded by those who once were living;
to imprisonment you can soon say goodbye.
Renewed hope, peace of mind;
you’re looking for justice to send you a sign.
As moribund approaches and the unknown awaits;
you smile for the last time at the sight of Heaven’s gates.


Poem copyrighted by Bo Bandy.

© Getty & Fey.
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