The dead rest easy, in quiet repose,
Soft words caress their tombstones.
This hushed respect for what's gone,
As if what's left may curse what is yet living.
Finality and an end to time that expands,
Who may care but those who feel their feet lick the Styx?
Or taste Acheron's sulfuric spray in their nose?
Sound is an energy the passed on may not convey,
Time is a river where the past stands at its banks.
A Great Depression with no withdrawal,
Only a chance to wait...
It is the just born in need of such a place,
Where death looks easy and straight.
It is those at sunset who feel the fanfare,
That trumpets call to play.
Rest as you are not,
In this world,
And they stay shut.
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