The Grave

Looking upon a lost soul in the ground,

as the grey stone stood vigil all around.

The fading, fleeting, cold sunlight is lost,

The fading sunlight of a summer's cost.

The grey stone covered in moss absorbed it,

no torches of Hell from the grave were lit.

The man interred lay forever silent,

Although he screamed in his death so violent.

Yet time shrouded his cruel and bloody past,

Now observed by the Church bells and the monk's fast.

His name weathered away into the dark,

As the roses, for him, never picked from the park.

As if his soul screamed in agony great,

This murderer, this daemon, this man, late.

One would never know it by the cold, grey stone,

The sight of man perpetu'lly alone