The Dead

Woeful are those beneath the earth, lying in their stasis, calling to me my own name.

On a post beyond the buildings
Where roles of superstition play
I sat there with flowers and many hours
To picture me of rot and decay.

For a moment I glanced away
I saw my own face amidst the graves.

Oh so fragile is the sleep of the dead,
So soundly they must be napping.
If only I were not the nuisance
And on there door I was not wrapping.

I closed my eyes, laying my body down
Giving way to the coolness of the ground.

Where there was once a fleshy tongue
gnarled, rotten teeth now click
Where there was once a wheezing lung
Balled wrappings of leathery nothing sit.

For just one second I had peeked
Into thoughts of the dead and eternal sleep.

The overcast above seeped beneath my cap
Clouding my thoughts from all alive
Now to wonder what words from a dusty tome
Will mark the spot that I now lie.