the groundskeeper’s dilemma

I’ve come across the wounded, the dying and the dead. I've stood by the dying, I've held their hands and played their last games. I’ve hugged the dead. I’ve attempted to heal the wounded with my own blood. Those who I hold closest are flickers in reality, never staying but never fading. 

A stone for me, a stone for you, but you're past the point of throwing anything, I just toss rocks into the stream and keep what is left of you company, passing my attention to the immortal world around me. My voice falls onto ears that can no longer understand the living. 

Everyone I love is slowly dragged into the dirt, digging their own graves, even.

It hurts to be your groundskeeper, because stone cannot talk the way you do. It gets lonely when all I hear is my echo. 

Or maybe I’m just desperate enough to talk to ghosts. 

I don’t understand how I can be a good soul without fixing something. Healing someone. I cannot be like a tree or a mountain, useful just because it exists. I have the innate desire to completely alter time. Angelic properties that I wish to have at my fingertips, in my sounds, to be a miracle. 

I am the doctor to a million patients and a patient to none. I am the healer of a disease that has no cure and will never have a cure. 

Now I see the other eyes that watched me threaten my life, scream and cry, or mumble about what my next plans are to end my life. 

Now I see why everyone is scared of death. 

I hope the doors open up wide, wherever you end up.

I’m sorry.