deepundergroundpoetry.com

the dead, alas, must sleep

For the living know that they shall die: but the dead know not  
any thing, neither have they any more a reward; for the memory  
of them is forgotten.
—Ecclesiastes 9:5 KJV  
 
the dead, alas, they play no golden harps,  
nor care for solemn dirge or joyful song.  
their appetites for comforts, once headstrong,  
no anchorage finds in a silent corpse.  
 
the dead, alas, roam no celestial sky,  
like angels keeping vigil o'er the quick;  
they wait not in the dark to light a wick  
for loved ones seeking solace from on high.  
 
the dead, alas, care not for food and drink,  
or human comforts, heretofore enjoyed  
by kings and princes gormandised and cloyed,  
nor do they wait at purgatory brink.  
 
the dead, alas, stalemated in their graves,  
know nothing of the future, past, or now;  
perchance you think they dream to you, somehow,  
you make yourselves, of evil spirits, slaves.  
 
the dead, alas, must sleep the sleep of death  
until that Glorious Resurrection Morn,  
when Michael shall His saints with crowns adorn,  
whose mortal shall become immortal breath.  
 
© Copyright 2023 June 20  
by Clyve A. Bowen♫
Written by cabcool
Published
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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