Death falls within this mortal sphere
Where birds float high upon the fire
And tables laden with wine and cheese
Have buzzards fighting for the scraps.
Rot grows upon the unopened eye
And flowers flow from empty graves
As children float beneath the waves
And the gods cry out from on high
Within the dust we find ourselves
And toes so cold they hardly heat
Where butterflies dry up and die
Beneath this world of azure skies.
©ronvdm777
Nov 2019
©ronvdm777
R