Their Shovels are Already Rusting

their shovels are already rusting in the field

the dry ground turned wet from rain

their tracks are long by now as the sounds went silent

the clods fell heavy and the grass won't grow

in 5 minutes the storms will pass

in 5 more minutes the tiny headstone will dissolve to powder.

no one will remember the streaks in the sky

no one will remember the ink i spilled on countless sheets of paper

no one will know.

that's why i still try to write the letters to explain

the words i couldn't slip past my lips

the feelings i couldn't spell out into the air

the photos i couldn't draw or capture in the shutter

there is so much inside that haven't gotten out

there is so much inside that won't get out

i know that this will all get forgotten and erased

but this is how i try

this is how i attempt to defeat the silence of death