Memory of death

Once sanctuary.  
The uninviting undertones bellow in mourning.  
A soured fate.  
They say the deads sleep is endless, as my toll chimes, wakeless.  
Still unsighted eyes.  
With sickly bloodshot yolk, cresting as if to rise reborn.  
Tarnishing sleek silvered rumination, in anniversary of the best forgotten.  
Another empty plot fills a space better kept for the rigid, the disciplined.  
Hands worn of time for nothing other than keeping bones wrapped.    
In unbound duty, spreading dirt, not to cover but expose.  
Treadless stepping over and over the ghosts trampled in greater haste.  
Who's borrowed words are sung as tribute,  in service striking back in self reverence.  
Now hollowed breath exhumed.  
To treat a lasting patron, the unintroduced, bares the yet collected as for tolled is all.  
Reserving another debt to be owed in exchange.
They march with purpose they march for purpose, not in step.
Peace will never reclaim them, for they know not peace.
Sleep remains a wistful dream.
Not to be conquered.