A Shroud of poetry

Despite the shrouds of poetry
written for millenia
over sand and stone
parchment and paper
I can still see its raw face
clawing out of the coffin
to break my stupor.

Everyone is busy, almost worried
about this business as usual.
What size, what dimensions of a hollow pit?
That anyway doesn't guarantee containment.
And who can stop the hunger?
Of the worms that wait
like condemned prisoners
and uncomplainingly hollow out the eyes.
Or the flames with their many tongues
seen through a bleary eye, gulp the bait.

The ridges of the wrinkles
that have seen the same act
still make way for the moisture indicating life.
Life takes the same route
through the same narrow passages.

Everybody's stomach will upturn.
And everybody else will feed on it.
It is a common hunt for the living.
Who can't help but handle
by the only thing that is closer: living.

The silences will give away
to talking and bantering.
The old walls will still stand
And the special passes that are given out
expire in the wake of mourning.

And it will divide itself
into thousand ghouls
and the living will compete.