A Graveyard Reflection Poem by Alan Walsh

My weight strains,
On empty skulls, once harboring brains,
Musing on epitaphs one by one,
Meandering beneath the Summer sun.

I espied the death of a child of four,
Buried then, as there was no cure.
Life is vanity, let it be known,
Flesh corrupts and releases the bone.

Dreaming, conniving, solemnly striving,
Fleeting to a fro, ignoring the day,
When ashen, old and emotionally cold,
We long for death to whist us away.