Mailbox Grave


A mailbox this grave.
We, the letter sent.
What’s a life to save?
Is it futility hell-bent?
A breath,
Watching life and death.
The unknown,
Waiting for our souls.
But not so unknown when we,
Are sent off to eternity.
As the postman to carry us there  lowers the flag,
Room is made for the next who’s been tagged.


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