My Tomb Poem by Kevin Maroney

When the dead birds flutter in the wind so soft,
when the insects come around the dusty loft,
when the wind blows through hallowed lovely locks,
on a head so white and bleached.

Somehow it doesn't seem to befit the name,
that all good things have to end the same,
that death comes whether you want it to or not,
and in the end your body just rots.

Why must you seem so cold to me,
no matter the praises i sing long for thee,
i think of you all day and night,
and it fills my soul with utter fright.

That creeping knowledge of death and her womb,
that one day that cold place will be my tomb.