A pine box in a grave,
the walls of wood will slowly decay,
the worms will enter
and feast on your skin
till you are no longer recognizable,
not even to your own kin.
Bones caked with dirt and tears.
The walls of wood will crack and bend
till the dirt fills the void within,
fills the spaces between your ribs
and fingers
and your toes,
covering all of your bones
in that sad lonely hole.
Years pass,
and the earth grinds your bones to a dust,
till you are no longer a body,
just a part of the earth's crust.
Mar 29, 2016
Mar 29, 2016 at 6:32 AM UTC
A pine box in a grave,
the walls of wood will slowly decay,
the worms will enter
and feast on your skin
till you are no longer recognizable,
not even to your own kin.
Bones caked with dirt and tears.
The walls of wood will crack and bend
till the dirt fills the void within,
fills the spaces between your ribs
and fingers
and your toes,
covering all of your bones
in that sad lonely hole.
Years pass,
and the earth grinds your bones to a dust,
till you are no longer a body,
just a part of the earth's crust.
