A Worried Man Poem by Dhanya M G

I know not why they haunt me
ceaselessly pecking and prodding my back
through the day, through the night
diffusing shades of grey into sublime white.

Marooned I am in a ghostly night,
sounds I hear are all illusory whimpers,
for I know it is an exercise in disconcerting silence.
Is it the ghost of the past,
unremittingly digging a grave dark and deep?

I worry more and deeper the shovel pushes me in,
I become the ground for an avalanche of morbid mud.
Before the tomb is laid, the undertaker stares a deathly stare
'Your constant worrying dug this grave, RIP! ! '.