the depth of the sky in a grave stone vase
wilted of the days bereft and thorn,
grey days that hang decrepit on chains
of thoughts that turn around forlorn.
through the long dead we pass this life,
reading a name or two their dates.
following the woodpecker, the jay, the fox,
out through the opening and closing of gates.
left behind, halted in mid stone breath,
they relay nothing to us of death.
so why not stay longer next time and say
sorry you had to go on your separate way.
or shift a sod and snuggle beneath,
and leave this awful life of grief,
and watch the passers by each day,
watch them go their separate way,
down through the sky in that grave stone vase,
turn up in the sky in the clouds and blue.
when the beacon graves blaze ablaze,
i will be the i am, the you beyond you.