Rain
It always rains. Water runs into the hole in the ground where they are about to lay another of my dead friends. Water runs down the back of my neck, soaking my collar and the patch of cotton that sits between my shoulder blades, under my thick woollen coat. I never bother with an umbrella; if I did, people would realise I am crying rather than simply wiping raindrops off my face.
I try not to keep a tally of how many of the dead lying in this place were once friends of mine. Too many. There are non-friends I would happily lay in the ground if I could. Creatures... People... who have caused me or my loved ones harm. Mostly, though, I am the cause of the greatest harm to my friends. Their love for me, their loyalty to my causes and my personage, these things are so often the causes of their deaths.
I consider the mud covering the toes of my boots. Mud I so wish I could lie down in myself, for a final and decisive time. Not that I have never been dead and buried; my own beloved brother made sure I accessed that particular experience. I never stay dead, though. I am re-collected in darkness and re-birthed in excruciating pain. I am a man made of mud. The rain washes me apart, and the universe forms me anew; the air, fresh in my new lungs, chars my soul. I am returned from the flames of creation to reclaim my existence, whether I want to or not.