Poet's Graveyard
On the hills thick fog creeps along
the haunted soil of your grave
Ghostly birds sing misty, morning songs
-there's nothing left for you to crave
Mourning you - your friends you knew
dragging solemn shoes across the morning dew
crickets chirp in the gloomy mood
all is bad - all is good
Death stands nearby, with scythe - in black hood
Your final bed's headboard made of rock
in daylight hours - in moonlit storms
defeated skeletons of trees above you mock
your bones that feed the flowers and worms
All is bad - all is good
Even the Poet is a slave
wrapped in coffin-blanket made of wood
Clock is ticking - Road of Fate is paved
-and Death's a Dream we all shall have.
poem by Ray Quesada
Added by Poetry Lover
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