Grave Thoughts

Who remembers fallen heroes?

Who reads their epitaph?

The empty rooms and frozen tombs,

chiselled cenotaph,

stark markers as reminders,

but memory soon fades,

the sword versus the shovel?

A song of blades and spades.

 

So poets pen their pieces,

carve, then starve a eulogy,

And the faeces of the species

will lie and cry for thee,

claim they knew you and through you,

find their own parade,

ignoring the boring,

actors acting, unafraid.

 

Forgetting fallen heroes,

before the grave is cold,

the autopsy of ancestry,

a story left untold,

are we ashamed if left unnamed?

Unharmed but alarmed by the credit?

if I were to write for my own headstone,

would it survive the edit?

 

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