Countless graveyards remain rich,
Rich in the remains of great men;
A people unled, songs unsung, books unwritten.
Trash bags house the ashes of cremated dreams.
Men surely live on, all dreams don’t.
Awakened by the ghosts of empty biographies, emptied I must leave.
“It is finished” on the tombstone.
A purpose fulfilled life, Lord I seek merry at the wake.