the ink and sound of all things dead

watchful plinth of cool stone—the head of old decay,
buried by soot and soil, marked with ultimatum,
the phlegmatic face, fringed with lichen,
unchanged—before tearstained adieus.
who guards the sleeping mounds of tousled earth,
keeping at bay those who fell unyielding,
and cages outstretched fingers of bone.

‘do ye remember,’ the rock whispers to rock,
‘when mortal kind built our kin, high above the peaks?
when temples rose, and castles stood, kept by cobbled keep?’
with heads bowed low, and humbled—their questioning resumed…
‘what of bygone honor? and what sacred service have we?
we rest among their fallen—the keepers of their dead,
in the erstwhile of our glory—ere of ancient time.’

when an assembly of sorrow, marches through the yard,
bearing the forlorn weight, of another soul astray,
tears shed on rosy cheek—flushed lips still and hushed,
the gravestones murmur, unheard by human ear,
‘yet another one departed; engulfed by their demise.’
though no sound arose from the stones of everafter.

ink is the mark of skeleton hands, clasped
close to a breathless chest—and etched
across decaying earthen soil
beneath their crumbling ribs.

ink is the red that seeps from the well of flesh,
poured forth from the lip, to overflow—
over
the cup
of violence,
by a blade of silver steel.
akin to fire, wrathful flames are quick to quench,
extinguished in plumes of rising smoke—
and heroes of old are buried,
deep below the earth.
lost is their memory, devoured by the epoch,
recalled only by worm and bone.

the ink that pounds through aching heart,
slows as steady soul departs,
draining into settled loam—
consumed by the envoy of rot.

below the silver gravestones, rest two ancient frames,
caressed close together, in a cold embrace,
a voice whispers to silence, ‘do you fear death my darling?’
clutching bony hand to empty rib, trembling in reply,
gazing at the stars, through maggot devour’d eyes,
‘no, my love—my heart of mine,’ came the slow response,
‘for even as we lie, here among the earth,
our nimble souls have fled, to a finer space,
high above the heavens, among the holy kind,
in the sacred presence, of our blest Father,
who crafted bone and skull alike, His hallowed hand divine.
and though our flesh and blood has rot
in a still decay, peace has claimed our lively souls,
in the arms of He.’

ode to grave, to corpse, to death,
the triumvirate of passing time,
the unhappy heralds of grief and ache,
that takes us by the hand and guides,
our ailing bodies patiently,
all bent and crooked, silver-haired,
weary—worn by years of toil,
as vigor fades, and muscle fails,
in the final clasp of sleep.

ode to bone, to earth, to flesh—
borne with crown of gentle rot,
feast for maggot’s brood
and frame of ancient time,
the empty eye and hollow rib—
evermore fated to lie in rest,
to remind the dewy youth again
of an age long before their prime,
to which they easily forget.

ode to life, and then rebirth,
like wilted flower blooms anew,
the gift of grace and sacrifice,
that comes right after death,
swiftly as the sparrow flies,
when soul embarks to heavens high,
beyond the parted clouds above
returning home where we belong,
at the Father’s side.

‘where does the sun withdraw,
retired below glistening horizon,
beneath earth and soil—resting
in a swathe of milky stars?
i relish the taste of balmy rays,
tendrils pooling upon the green,
blades of turf along my spine,
against the marrow of my naked bones,
tugging at the ancient vacance,
in my lichen covered ribs—
but why must the sun hide her sultry face,
vanishing for the night to fall?
replacing warmth with bitter cold,
that nips at thigh and arm,
veiling the world in ceaseless dark,
while one like i cannot find rest,
but lie in wait while shadows creep
along the forest floor—
seething, crawling fingers of black,
wretched beasts who gnaw and bite,
thieving, feasting on what light
the hungry moon casts down at night,
idle, waiting as they claw,
at my frame and unearthed grave.
why must She steal away
what little solace that i nurse,
the tender shreds of consolation,
to which i hold so dear?

my love, do not depart from me,
stay to keep my spirits warm,
above the gaping, empty sockets,
to which have rolled aside,
arousing the deepest affections
for such a lovely face,
stay to keep me company,
my love, my sun of mine.

Oh! Love your word choice throughout - it feels light and airy and whimsical, but at the same time gritty! Great imagery in this last one too!

ahh thank you so much! I'm so glad you like them!

you asked me once while full of life,
with dewy hyacinths in your locks,
and a smile on your rosy lips,
‘how much is it that you love?
how much do you carry
in your heart?’
my love, i was taken by your beauty,
unable to give a reply—
enthralled by your silent grace,
as you trailed a hand—
across my trem’ling cheek.
though now my dear i know,
how much it is that i love,
for truly now,
in death we lie
beside each other’s bones,
in endless, gentle slumber
among the earth and dead—
but now my love i know,
if it was, we were two graves,
resting in a quiet field,
covered in trailing ivy
with leaves of shining green,
readily i would tear up
my deepened roots,
just so i may reach you,
touching stone to stone,
against your frozen facet,
just to feel your
peaceful presence.

when lovely heart has fallen,
into deathly silence,
hushed by years of mortal age—
and heaving chest has long
drawn its last breath,
which slipped past paling lip,
as the light has dimmed
from the shutting eye—
the ones of sorrow
with tear-stained cheek
and prayer lifted up
to the heavens, cry:
‘o mournful day, ‘tis come!
for soul has fled away from breast,
and sleep hath taken them from us—
a slumber they shalt never wake from
forevermore.’
for mortal thought finds end in death
when darling lover then departs,
but not so!—
for there is life above the grave,
beyond the earthly toil and
the wicked nature of our kind,
where ill intentions
are locked away
in the place where endings die.
such is a life for when we pass—
bestowed to us by loving Father,
who seized death by serpent’s tail,
and in His sacred fist He cast
it within the pits of hell.
now when we shed our skin and flesh,
as the caterpillar does,
to spread the wings of our steady soul,
we may soar through cloud and shade
to be beside the Father who,
with gentle hand created us,
in the place where endings die.