I sat in the autumn park alone,
The orange leaves collected at my feet.
A child or two swung on the old swings.
Off in the distance, I saw a pink house
And thought of a skirt you used to wear.
Everything felt like something I couldn’t save,
Like an unpreventable suicide,
Like blessing the very spade
That would later shovel my grave.
Uriah Hamilton
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/shovel-my-grave/
