Quietly we all will go,

Not making a sound.

There is no silence

Like the silence of the grave.

As the deepness thickens

It attenuates sound waves,

Until they can no more pierce

Or penetrate.

There is nothing able

To fall on dead ears.

No even a mausoleum

Has echo enough to awaken,

To stir the occupants of The Necropolis.

No one ever emerges from such stillness.

All prayers are long ago faded to dust.

The agog weeping, was absorbed,

By the mud of the soul drenched,

Bone trenched, deathly stenched,

Collect of commemoration.

Like the hand draped casks of the many,

Be they some placed or garden planted.

All grandeur was set aside, no status held sway,

When each was laid level with the other.

And from King to corpse

Being either grounded or in ashes,

Eventually all will become unknown,

And then, all will be forgotten.

C 2028 Christopher Thompson

All rights reserved

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