Poetry

I am pulling out from the committed 
sin, cadaver walking, 
digging the gold from the pit. 
 
Footwears of dead men were 
heaped into a pile when 
god was praying. 
 
Was it a perceived tragedy 
of a man drawing doodles 
to offset the sunset? 
 
You were alone, dousing 
the fire and shaping the clay. The 
hamlet was less inclined to intercede. 
 
Your flesh slips from my hands 
for a rebirth. I was flying a kite. 
I was dead before you were born again.