Poetry

Soliloquy of the Grave

written by: Mike Basile

I look above and stare in wonder,
how is it that I'm now under
the ground on which I used to walk?
A wave races through me, composed of shock.
For I was not ready to be ripped from the living,
so for you, God, there shall be no forgiving.
But left in this box - my corpse to rot,
how long will it be, before I'm forgot?
And what of the family I've left behind?
Left to face life's daily grind
without a hand to lead or to hold.
Surely they're lost, as I grow cold.
And of the world, in which I now rest?
Surely, I best used the life I possessed.
Better now, the world must be,
for all the deeds fulfilled by me.
Mattered to most, and not to few,
are these not things that I should construe?
Or are they delusions, false indeed,
of a man, with assurance in need?
Lies that I spew in my slumber,
to keep myself from being torn asunder?
Did I do enough to be called good?
Or is it better that I lie in this wood?
Of all these things I'll never be sure,
and so forever I shall have to endure
the unanswered questions that lie in my head
and hope I did right, before was claimed dead.
Myself I'll remember, for all of these days.
Sometimes with dread and sometimes with praise.
But to the world I'm left to rot,
so how long will it be, before I'm forgot?