A New Rest

The box is cold

The dirt hard

And the dust

unbreathable

The cold that would follow

would never be spoken of again

The dew would be my quilt

and the box my bed

The stars would be

my friends evermore

And time,

no more

As the grass would age

the leaves fall,

and the trees grow;

The stones would stay

The rain would polish

the sun would bleach

and the sand would shave

They would walk,

but not much

As night would become day

More would join our ranks

of Dust and Decay.