Grave of a Minor Poet

Roaming eyeless amongst the graves,

Time’s serpent serenades the dead

With a song so sibilant

It saturates the silence with dread.

The moon pounds against the walls

Of its close-quartered tomb, demanding

To be blessed. (With its halo-corona,

It is already a saint.)

An enigmatic prophecy is being written in the stars.
The serpent stops and winds itself

Around a gravestone, upon which is written

No name, and no date. Only an epitaph

That reads: “He lived.”