Stained Graves

Tick... Tock... Tick... Tock, the flying bird hits a rock. Black apparels grace the ting of dangling bells. Faded emotion, the atmosphere sells. Ashes and cremation; worthless pearls. Lids kiss. Reeds diss. The log is laid. A perfect box was made. Last wishes, we prayed. Endless array of tuxedos drench and tucks egos. A joyless meeting of amigos. Like the sight of the path the army goes. Finally flesh merges with dust. Wails grow and tear tanks burst. Little ones are lost in an abyss. All they can do is miss. Beginning of an endless beginning. What was thought impossible becomes possible. Mortal body transcends to immortal. Man is face-to-face with Maker, like cake returned to the baker. No more love poems and cards to make her or the Sunday beach cruise in his bay car. A great bewilder of the pen, sent six feet below into a fortified sand den. The world just lost a word, but the earth gained a gem's death. Blank papers thirst. Cold pens await to be squeezed and bitten. Let them fall on our little tender hands. Let's stab letters onto papers, just as you once did with quills. We'll imprint our signature. We'll acquint the poets culture. Just as air will never be exhausted, your words will be eaten in an egg sauce stead.