• A spectral voice hums silent in the air,
    From absent eyes I feel a vacant stare,
    A chill as of death now runs up my spine,
    As I innocently sit and drink my wine,
    I find no purpose for myself in these living days,
    And so, in death, I seek for brighter ways,
    For paths to that which I have yet to see,
    And answers as to what I am to be.

    Stone silent stands the sentinel with his lance,
    Guarding the peaceful dead against the chance,
    Of thieves who would rob their very bones,
    For but the pittance of wealth and precious stones,
    and in gratitude the dead shall silent lie,
    Beneath the blood red moon and starry sky,
    Their empty eyes shall no more treasure seek,
    And skeletal grins ne'er open up to speek

    In the silent garden of the tomb,
    Sleep the dead, as children in the womb,
    Watching on as time forgets their loss,
    Till their bones become but anchors for roots of moss,
    And by the time these bones have turned to dust,
    Their former owners have lived and died again, felt love and lust,
    Their new flesh and blood and bone now interred
    To rest and wait again for their master's return.