The dead cannot pray. They molder in their graves Awaiting resurrection, The force that creates The soul’s yearning for Transcendence. We yearn for happiness, Satisfaction, comfort, rest. We yearn for meaning, Purpose, a cosmic path. We yearn for self-consciousness, Preciousness, an open heart. Death cannot extinguish them. Our days are strung together Like letters in the sand. We see the message only As it disappears. Night divides the light Into fractal pieces. The firmament flattened by The weight of stars. We rise and recline like Mechanical banks. Shoot a penny into The lion’s mouth. Hear the hunter roar. Death stalks the living, Sticks its finger in our Ribs. It is a holdup, But we carry no cash. Remember Ozymandias. Memory sculpts Memorials that crumble In the sea. Waves lap the pieces. Epitaphs erode. Death be not proud, John Donne proclaimed. But how can the fallen Take pride in their downfall? Extinction awaits around Every corner. There is no defense. Death is a theater with Its curtain half-drawn. Below it, you track The actors’ shuffling feet. Above it, only oblivion And empty stage lights.