Sonnet V
Men say that graves are beds once used,
We wake and soon we go to sleep,
And after mourners come and weep,
To leave home whole or deeply bruised.
Yet how can man be even more,
Dead than when he is betrayed,
And aren't for feelings coffins made,
That are replaced by tears of sore.
You die alright or so it feels,
Than you awake to pay your bills,
Or to be wisely killed again.
We die, we wake, we're seed and grain,
What once was dark shall find its lights,
For graves are mornings and are nights.
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