Dirge Eternal

The body of the fallen man lay cold,

and oh the story his bones told.

Withered and gnarled, shattered and broke,

it is questioned whether he held hope.

For his form lay in agony,

wrought in tragedy.

burned by scorn,

and from love torn.

the only ones who take notice,

or for that matter, the ones who know of this,

are the crows, and worms of dirt and earth,

to them, food, is his only worth.

no headstone, no marker, no mourners, no love,

not even the stale song of the dove.

Cold along the side of the bleak hill,

to forever remain still.

No blood, no heart, no soul.

just the bones, and deaths toll.