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The Hidden
The storm rages on throughout the night;
Thunderheads crash overhead.
Bats flying through the air, flitting in trees,
The moon luminous in the sky.
Rain pouring down, turning dirt in to mud.
One lone person out in the night,
Carefully digging a hidden grave.
Sweat trickles down, mixing with blood;
Not hers, but from somebody different.
The person a criminal himself.
A murder, a crime, hurry up, not much time;
Thoughts and feelings, racing around,
Quicker and faster with each shovel-full
Of the dirt she removes from the ground.
The flames sputter, and die slowly,
As they are smothered by the dirt.
