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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.