Speak Ill | HR Creel
We have learned
not to speak ill of dead
so close to living
in the cemetery ourselves
visions of head stones
reciting epitaphs.
poems about death
Fallen | William Swales
We all fall
like leaves
of Autumn.
Bones crack
like decaying
branches
on a forest floor
Slowly returning
to the soil
whence they came.
Withered are we
Oh children of Earth,
Born to die
grasping for light
only to hope
to reach the forest’s top.