Death seems all too natural.
like a thief of time,
he lurks in the shadows
preying on the soul;
and then later laying us hand by hand
into the darkness we will never emerge from.
Covered over and then forgotten
the constant hunger for fresh air
ceases, as the pine gives the remaining whisper a stale kiss.
Stiffened and fading in our last slumber
in which death has taken the meaning from sleep,
our thoughts go no further than the last kiss we meet.
Maybe one day daises will grow at our head.