The graveyard seems so empty as I move amongst the dead
ivy nestles to the rock above someone's final bed
The words upon the tombstone burrows deep into my mind
I trace the crippling letters not sure of what I'll find....

The Epitaph is written, in this , our final call
the justice of the sinners lies embossed on rotting walls
words that lay upon the stone become the texture of a life
just twenty words to tell a tale, is this the basic price?

I hear the silent echo coming somewhere deep within
is this my final hour or the birth of all my sin?
What words would people put here and raise above my head
to resemble all that I once was to console me when I'm dead?

What tragedy will bring me here to have my concluding rest?
will all the ones that stay behind realise it was a lonely quest
would words that bide here chiselled into cold and bitter rock
say everything I need to say but know that I cannot?

My Epitaph is nothing it remains a blank grey slate
I haven't seen the fires of hell, no chance at heaven's gate
But the words upon my tombstone are ready for the grail
'tis time to draw the curtain
and hammer the saving nail