It sleeps in dead cold

It is a hard, unforgiving bed from which the small tufts of grass once grew

Funny how life had to start there

Now that all is dust, we bury the dead, those we all knew

Maybe there’s a large weight holding them beneath the surface

It’s colder and harder than the rest of the underground

Once the grave has been filled, there’s little hope they can be found

We forget them and everything but the trouble they would cause with time

As it swallows them whole, worms climbing between ribs like knitting needles through a dark wool

They become part of it, disintegrating into a fine grime

They too, will sleep in a dead cold