Necropolis

The rusty, creaky iron door

Welcomes you in to the land of the dead

Where, to Hades’ ravenous earth,

Bodies of the dead are fed.

The chilling wind and moonless night

Are a reminder of their last moments-

How their body went cold and eyes lost light,

How they took a last wheezy breath.

The gravestones stand like sentries

On the battlefield of the graveyard,

Each guarding its own;

For who knows when claustrophobia might strike ’em.

Each one with a different epitaph-uniform

Like the shortest biographies in the world,

A whole life crammed in a couple lines

Just like the body in the coffin inside.

Some moss-covered, some cracked

Some’s uniform so worn,

You can’t even decipher the engravings

A whole life, forgotten.

Flowers, once red, but now so withered

They crumble into dust at the slightest touch,

Their bond with the living plane broken

Dead, like the subjects of the tombstones.

Here and there you might see a snake

Come to guard the dead from the living,

To see that no one crosses the Styx alive

Lending a hand to the boatman.

The oaks and pines are grave,

Just like the yard they grow in

Realising that none but the gods are immortal

Thanatos will come for them one day.

One day this graveyard will grow so vast

That it covers the entire Earth,

One day no one will be left to give

Living roses to the dead.