More mournful a day can n'er be found
when viewing the world from under ground.
Six feet down or maybe more,
the lid is sealed just to be sure.
Eyes sewn tight; torn open again.
Surrounded by darkness, the shell at its' end.
The solace of death is a moment of joy.
Out living the sanity of the mind it destroyed.
Intured into Earth and covered in grass
the soul slips away to spy on the mass.
A tear, a sob, a head in the hands.
Regret, hate and sorrow, emotion on demand.
Fleeing to the dark the soul recollects
anger and torture of the mind it left.
It was once explained at the time of birth;
'Do what you will, this is your dirt'.
For no matter the depth,
no matter how brave
at lifes true end we make our own grave.
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