First ring I ever drew still hurts the last thing I ever drew

Telling myself just one more year until the last shovel of dirt

Spending forever doting on each circle of graphite

Each fresh ring a hoop that marks my not passing on

Safe places are vacuums, filling with sadness, without spark

Plucked out of a patch of sun, I tried to refill you

Wrapped in burlap

My first born dead

How many children do I have to bury before I am allowed to end

Why doesn't the ghost speak, instead stare accusing