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