Wreaths of mist swirled up into the cold air
As I looked at my grave in despair.
It was in disrepair and could not be saved.

Am I such a depraved knave that
I was waived my rights for a better place of interment?
I can not get over the convalesce
that this will be my permanent address.

I played the saint.
A saint I'm ain't.
No one heard my plaints.
But I heard your complaints.
Gave you tainted words.

No wonder I am where I am.

Wreaths of mist swirled up into the cold air
as I said my prayers.
A foursquare refusal to yield
to this grave, to this field.

To life and all it's strife.
To death and it's last breath.

I blocked my ears to the whispers
and it did stop the fate spinners.

Leaving destiny
at my mercy.