The Grave You Dig Is Your Own - Poem by Bethany Maxwell
The tears of our ancestors fall upon our graves,
In which we have placed ourselves by our own decieving hand.
We are to be hung by the gallows, of which we build ourselves,
With jelousy and pride our noose has been woven.
The winds of time gone by, and time to come, blow past our funeral’s march,
Attended by those who also attend their own,
Generations to come wait in wonder of our knowledge,
Lies and deceit we have written and call truth.
Dreams of dreamers, whose lives have flowed past us, create a parallel reality,
An impossible event like that of a circle encompassed in another whom touch.
To the grave we march, an army of ourselves, to an inevitable fate we’ve written.
We join the graves we’ve dug, headstones we’ve set, our own names engraved,
And let the tears of our ancestors’ rain down and water our daisies of dying hope.
By: Bethany J. Maxwell
Comments about The Grave You Dig Is Your Own by Bethany Maxwell
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Still I Rise
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
Do Not Stand At My Grave And Weep
Mary Elizabeth Frye
I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You