The slab of stone is cool to the touch,

or else I can assume.

My bony fingers cannot feel

the texture of my tomb.

Thorny roses coil around,

like viny verdant veins.

Concealing details of my death,

and safeguarding my name.

The moss and twisted trees

are gnarly and deformed.

A forest from a nightmare,

or a dream from long before.

I wait for something lost to time—

the wind my only friend.

A breeze that tickles strands of hair

that cling to my rotten head.

For though they loved me, I can hope,

they’ve never come to say.

They buried me way out here,

and then they lost the way.