Emptying an empty tomb, a chore for a restless and perfect idiot, again.
From the act of removing old remains comes a brief respite. But respite is not peace.
Another day, though, another day, perhaps soon, amity will manifest if the night conspires as a friend might. Here’s to hoping a less frightening dawn is in the offing, but only if the offering is a right sacrifice; then maybe so. Maybe so. Then.
But now is not tomorrow, so stew, steep, in the sadness that chases, catches, and lashes. He toils the day long with his makeshift tool. A dinner plate roped to a weathered ax handle, his shovel, his hands, his lifelong habit, a binge mercifully put to rest. Sleep.
The sorrow, though. The sorrow pushes in. Dreams.
Tomorrow, he will dig deeper, unearth, and atone again. He will try that.
Perform an act of continuous contrition. He will try that.
Sing to avoid a hollow outcome, another wrong hole filled. He will try that.
Tomorrow, when what was removed comes back.
He will try that.