Not decided yet

I sat in an open field

Pen and paper in hand,

Waiting for raw inspiration to strike.

I looked around me,where I was perched

On a little hillock  of dirt,grass and wild flowers

And I thought,what if this was once a short,burly man

Who died a horrible death,a murder most foul,

A struggle in this field,in the still of the night.

The only witness was the moon,he was left there to suffer.

I wondered if he said anything at all

If he had the strength to,of course.

What if all he did was gasp as the life escaped his body

A mere whisper,not even deserving an echo

To announce to the underworld of his coming.

No one to mourn him or remember his name.

What if he was a selfish man and the only good thing he ever did

Was die in order to sustain life on this mound.

I sat there in that open field imagining all this on that hump

Overgrown with luscious,green grass and forget-me-nots.