Dirt - brown and black and grey -
built up to the height of a man.
On top of it, a stony label,
rubbed away by wind and rain in tandem
'til I have to squint to see the name.
Worms and woodlice and other evils
lurk and gnaw at all around them,
chopped in two at times by sharp, painful
chips of rock with razor-blade edges. Birth
dies - it cannot breathe between these layers
of sickness. Green grass cannot grow
around it; flowers faint at the thought; so
only grey weeds can be found in the darkness.
And under it all
sleeps my broken baby.