Thorn Farmer

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 vaccuums, 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