This Hell Is Mine

The sun burns scorching his skin

Back aching still the pickaxe continues to swing

The hole grows deeper for each drop of sweat

Hours pass steady till the sun finally sets

 

Another dawn, another harsh day

Weather-worn fingers digging to find their way

Patiently spending their given time

You might call this hell, but this hell is mine

Said… you might call this hell, but this hell is mine

 

Neck burning buzzards hover above

Patiently awaiting their due with unconditional love

Dry lips bleached from the dust and sun

Mutters a curse as the bullets go into his gun

 

Two prayers, three, four fumbling shots

All are required to finish her off

In the distance faint bells chime

Well, you might call this hell

But this hell is mine

 

The dust won’t settle while that haunting wind blows

The buzzards all gone and every trace of him wiped out but one

An old pickaxe with a broken shaft

Obscured by the dust like a ghost from the past

with crude letters in the wood stands scrawled

you might call this hell, but to me this is all