A grave sits atop a hill,
Its epitaph bleak, profound.
Rooted by poison, it sits,
The hill long built on falsity.
At half past midnight,
He stood in view, in observation.
His icy hands hung east and west,
His skull south, and soles north.
Climb up and up,
Up to that silent summit.
A barren conifer stands guard,
Warning those who enter.
At a quarter to two,
Time had begun to crawl.
Spin around, to face the way he came,
Gravity embraces its not long-lost friend.
South caresses soft earth,
On a bed of spider lilies,
Crystal drops assault his flesh,
From clouds hanging heavy.
Water turns to dirt,
Envelops him like vines, embraces.
Lonesome battered rose falls,
Settling below the blank stone.
