The place we always return to.
It is where we lay to rest.
Our own piece of the Earth.
Numbers to match our name.
Everything we are, within four walls.
Into cushions we sink.
Separate, yet together.
Delivery boxes along a stone path
Blurred lines between each.
Our stories summed up with things.
Flowers out front for everyone else to see.
Things to share and to represent.
One big gathering to welcome.
Everyone comes to see.
Then they come in smaller groups.
Less and less, they’ll visit.
The grass will grow and grow
Until it is only you in your grave.
About the Creator
Tales from a Madman
.. the figure in question had out-Heroded Herod, and gone beyond the bounds of even the Prince's indefinite decorum.
The Masque of the Red Death
Edgar Allan Poe
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