gmincks
Funeral. Standing forlorn over the hole, its not square it's circular. There is no coffin it's a treasure chest. The body isn't laying delicately, but folded efficiently, and the chest isn't decrepid, but glorious.
Canteen spleen cleaning everything, swabbing everything so that it gleams it glows back bright showing that which is under the flap, under the skin, that is where your kin live, that is where they wait, oh sweet child