Graves afford ease,
for any who want it,
those who let dirt
house their sloth,
let grass gwo
as crowns to
their apathy,
and somewhere
a newspaper is printing
a nameless obituary,
a morgue tags a toe
an autopsy reveals
death comes to all,
but not when
or how or why.
And why would
we speak of it?
Our epitaph's
are expendable
because we all
carry them
and there is no cure
that words can conjure
for them.
So we'll continue to die
in silence,
from mute voices
or deaf ears,
each screaming
his own plea,
begging to be heard,
to be helped,
and so caught
as to distill
all others.
And we'll keep
playing house,
everything is okay,
waiting for our turn
to lie down
and die,
six feet beneath
an able and waiting

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