I sink my knees
into the sodden dirt
surrounding the grave
of a human long gone

I touch the stone's
chiseled cursive words
and trace the letters:
how gelid they've become

I stare at the flowers
that people have left;
upon the plot,
ham-handedly chopped

And I contemplate
my inevitable death
hoping no flowers are left
for the message they possess

"I'm trading life for death."