The Facsimile

“Wake up!” she cried, slapping his cheek.
A lifeless head, still, limp.
“I am here.” Startled, she slipped.
Taken aback.

A facsimile? She turned around to this galley slave,
His half body standing out from the burying place,
Shovel over his shoulder, insolent gaze.
Smooth as tarmac.

She looked down at this lifeless soul,
His red lips, green eyes, etched into cuneiform
Across his sinless face. Cold, but warm.
Hair jet black.

“That part of me is now dead,” snorted the renege,
He shovelled deeper into his own grave,
Raining black moulded loam.
Memorial plaque.