Cary Briel

The tombs
The tombs
The tombs;

Is that what awaits my bones?
In youth I didn’t think such things;
But now I hear the moans;

The moans?– from tombs?

No, silly–
From the soul inside of me;

Oh– but if you have to worry so,
Then why at forty-three?

Well– likely not I’d guess;

But each year more and more you see
My body’s more a mess;

Each year as I, helpless, watch
As more gray makes it’s show
And more hair bids goodbye to me–
Those tombs increase their woe;

And each year when in looking back
The year does seem a day
And time is ticking on and on
In such a torrid way–

So I can’t help it–
I think about it;
I try to put it on the shelf
And not think about myself

But there are so many
In attendance–
So much evidence
Of all who came before
And all who’ve not escaped

The tombs
The tombs
The tombs.