In the ninth place

Day approaches.
And dirt
smells sweet
so we seek
to sink.

Bury my mouth
that my words
might be silent.

Bury my heart
that it might remain
untouched.

Bury my hands
that they might
not mend.

Bury my wisdom
that I might
not know.

We no longer bother
with a counting
of years.

Let them roll
deep beneath the dirt
down to the bedrock below.

No turning back.
Not now.

And I am sorry
that it goes too slow.

And I am sorry
that it goes so fast.

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About Emily

I may or may not have: A. Dirt B. Ink C. Paint D. Wool under my fingernails.

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