For context, I work in a graveyard, and found out this summer that coffins tend to shift around when the frost thaws in the spring, sometimes ending up in the wrong plot or placed such that they inhibit a new coffin from being put in an empty plot. This sonnet came out of that. I don't think it's technically correct in form, but I was fooling around a bit with the location of line breaks in the middle of sentences rather than at the end.
In the springtime thaw, coffins start to slide
through a gruesome dance, the six-feet-under
tango; their bodies, long since cold inside,
leave disturbed grave sites, all torn asunder.
Each day, as new shoots push stubbornly through
hard ground, the bodies start to play their cruel
tricks, creating grief in burials moved
as they steal new plots, in a twisted duel.
Even after death, they have a wide reach
sowing seeds of sorrow in families
with loved ones displaced, chaos formed from peace
of death, confusion mixed with tragedy.
Slowly, the surface shifts and soft soils slide,
Beneath it all, the graveyard is alive.
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