Where to are you bound
if not in the ground?
The sky is the limit, they say.
You fly to a peak
and stay for a week,
then rise into heaven one day.
The dirt in the hole
will replace the soul,
the quiet still sticky with prayer.
The insects and snakes
will hold their own wakes.
You’ll rest in eternal nightmare.
Soon flowers will grow
in row upon row.
Your stone will host lichen and mold.
It’s no party town
when you’re six feet down.
There is no cure for growing old.