Monday, November 09, 2009

The Death of Souls

Watching as rocks pile high against the dirt,
always built on sweat and hurt.
Stone cold; the dead are laid,
Their legs crossed; how dirt is made.
Death- so high on the plain,
Earth, yes earth to which they are spread.

Some will live, many will die.
Come shadow and raise their souls into the sky.
Left to decay in the ground,
while the cold wind scatters the ashes around.
The dark; to which souls fear to tread,
for they know with the light, comes the end.
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