A hole is dug in the earthen ground,
a sleeping bed, to those who make no sound.
A final resting place,
at peace, as seen upon their face.
Not a worry or a care.
Nothing disturbs within their lair.
A wooden cave with a door,
but no one comes to knock upon such doors.
Above their head, a stone may read, “rest in peace”,
for this earthly home they now leave.
They had a name,
though not much fame.
They had a family too
that’s nothing new.
All that’s seen now is just a stone
perhaps a picture, a poem or bone.
To every stone there is a story inside,
and to every man was something to hide.
The fallen roses,
the rusted bench,
the crying angel,
the chirping finch.
I did not know you when you were alive
and yet here at your grave I stare and I strive.
Hoping I’ll hear your whispers where you lie.
Perhaps you’ll tell me how you died.