Poet's Graveyard Poem by Ray Quesada

On the hills thick fog creeps along
the haunted soil of your grave
Ghostly birds sing misty, morning songs
-there's nothing left for you to crave

Mourning you - your friends you knew
dragging solemn shoes across the morning dew
crickets chirp in the gloomy mood
all is bad - all is good

Death stands nearby, with scythe - in black hood

Your final bed's headboard made of rock
in daylight hours - in moonlit storms
defeated skeletons of trees above you mock
your bones that feed the flowers and worms

All is bad - all is good
Even the Poet is a slave
wrapped in coffin-blanket made of wood
Clock is ticking - Road of Fate is paved
-and Death's a Dream we all shall have.