Buried by Blood

(From the Pen of Thomas Miller – Death Poems from the Afterlife)

I held him close as his breath ran thin,his body trembling, soaked in sin.A brother’s hands, now stained and red,with whispered words for the newly dead.

"Don’t leave me here," his cold lips pled,his fading eyes, a map of dread.The weight of guilt, the taste of crime,a secret carved in shattered time.

The shovel bit the frozen ground,no prayers were said, no mourning sound.The earth took in his broken shell,a graveyard built where secrets dwell.

No cross, no stone, no words to say,just shifting soil to hide decay.Yet in the dark, I hear his breath,his voice still lingers after death.

The boards do creak, the floorboards groan,his shadow moves when I'm alone.A knock, a scratch against the wall,his whisper calls me down the hall.

"You thought me gone, you thought me dust, but blood will turn, and bones will rust. A grave can’t hold what was betrayed— a brother’s debt must still be paid."

The night is long, the air is tight,I dig, I dig in pale moonlight.But no remains, no flesh, no bone,just empty space—I'm left alone.

And yet, I feel him, near, behind,his breath as cold as fate unkind.For graves may hide what hands betray,but ghosts were never meant to stay.