The Untended Grave

My grave untended, my spirit
grows restless, and yet still you never come.
Who now knows who or what I was,
Or that I am?
A potter or a farmer?
A broken man,
Condemned to dwell in this parched earth.
A knotted root shoots down and rends my bones;
My body’s dry as dust, with no libations
Poured upon to quench my thirst.
Foul weeds grow everywhere about my tomb;
A forgotten patriarch:
Such is my doom.

-Victor Van Brandt