Then down the hole we watch you slide

along the sill where stones abide,

and stone and flesh come side to side.

And there you skid to rest.

In solitude, together we,

your siblings, friends and family,

are thrust in quiet misery,

watch, strung, breaks in our chest.

Too late, your heat escapes you now;

the chilly dirt, the frozen brow,

and all your frigid whispers sough

in layers on the snow.

Too late, and yet your shifting weight

— asleep in tongues of icy hate

in skin, on lips — your weight in fate

is naught for us to know.

Is naught, and yet we seek to pierce

the consequence, for life is fierce-

ly honest, like the works of Bierce,

and blame is on the brink.

In silence on the frosty earth,

and reddened snow, our tears of dearth

commingle with your fading hearth;

we watch your embers sink.

Then down the hole we watch you slide

along the sill where stones abide,

and stone and flesh come side to side.

And there you skid to rest.

In solitude, together we,

your siblings, friends and family,

are thrust in quiet misery,

watch, strung, breaks in our chest.