He is The Shovel Man.

The one who goes out on icy evenings

Lifting up the heavy, brown dirt with his metal instrument,

Loading it onto Whatever Might Be Growing There.

Killing it swiftly.

Wiping it out.

“You do not deserve to live. You do not deserve to live. You do not…”

He heaves His Instrument up and down again

Masturbating mechanically.

Robotically.

No humanity left; which is sad –

Because he had some once.

Motivated now by Survival Instinct gone horribly awry.

“I must go on. Only I. Only I. Only I.”

And this is how The Shovel Man spends his days:

He wakes.

He looks.

No. He watches.

Any seedling that pops up;

Any bud that dares rear it’s tiny head;

Any expression of anything at all –

He snuffs out.

He is part God, part Man and all Fear.

And he no longer notices that with each pile of dirt

Upon each baby feeling

He murders, also,

Himself.