Dance

The dead and all they own lie in their box alone Covered by sod under the grass beneath their cold gray stones. As they lie in the endless dark rotten of meat and bone, Free of pain and hate and greed their spirit forever gone. I ask if the dead are lonely? Do their ghostly spirits roam? Do some dance in glory before the Master's throne? Why do we rail our graveyards? Dead can neither walk or run. While the living find no reason to never again see the sun. There seem so many among us rotten of spirit and soul I pray for them to find their way before their spirits go. For when the box lid slams there is naught left to chance. The sharpness of one's faith will punch a ticket for the dance.