Font Color='#880000'The Grave/Font Poem by David Zvekic

How cold will my blood be before I die?
Before the frozen bones of friendship thin?
Before the words we weave bespeak a lie?
Before the final nail is hammered in?
How many hours must the earth pile higher
Til increase worries like a distant scream
To feed a starving pit but one desire:
That each is left remembered in a dream?
For so, so softly scratch these buried fingers,
Each grasping whisper of love's first true life,
Until what long was held no longer lingers,
And Warmth lies murdered with a lover's knife.
  Indifference is the grave where all must end...
  Though no-one fills it faster than a friend.

-June 26,2006