The Summoner

Your exhumed past
should not be here,
a dwindled forget,
such forms be gone:
feeling no cushion
as you now kneel,
on stiff prayer knees
for too long,
do not bow down
to history’s old song:

Summon no ghosts
under your sung spade,
leave those haunted houses
to others,
and turn your back,
walk the opposite way,
leaving your tools to rust
on the surface:
your past to rot
on undisturbed ashes.