They carve my name in marble,
But never spoke it in light.
They trace my letters, like a whisper,
As if they knew me by night.
The hands that reach for my stone,
Never offered any warmth before.
Their silence forged my coffin first,
Long before they grieved.
A king of dust, a throne of rot.
Now they kneel, now they pray.
But where were they when breath was still burned.
When i has still more to give.
Mean mearly shadow in their prime,
Unseen, unheard, only a passing weight.
Only once 6 feet down,
Do they feel to call fate.