I haul the shovel along with the coldness of my feet to the garden of remembrance; the only place in mind where the sun doesn't shimmer and the stars don't say goodbye. The moonlight is hustling to fight off the grayness that is eating away everything beyond skylines. I start digging the hole in which the cadaver will be buried. I look down at the casket we have carried shoulder to shoulder and snap it open one final time. If the dead ever could speak, you would know how morphed he sounds; given-up with a tinge of sanity and wisdom. Every skin crease mirrors a broken innocence for he has loved, he has endeared and he has been hurt. His expression is one of anger and disdain but nevertheless looks at peace. I murmur the rest of my prayers before I pick up a handful of dirt and throw it onto the coffin as it is lowered into its ultimate place. I repeat till it's no longer visible and that's when the tears gather in my eyes like the great Terracotta army awakening for batt...
We are not superheroes with big red capes or vigilantes who fight crime at night. We are just personas with pens in their quivers and who are passionate enough to share the rowdy thoughts devouring their souls.