The Unquenchable Chill Of The Grave Poem by Bryan Taplits

Life, is ever short or long
-under a re-repeating sun-
But you'll always be buried alone,
Either 'Advance' or 'Retreat'
Once off your feet-
Like a lapsed symphony-
you de-compose
Until you are merely blanched bones.

But what does matter
Is not the crusts-but what is in-between,
The 'filler' of your now 'moldering sandwich'
Seeking the essence of your new being.
(And the storm and strife, that was once 'in between'
Has become a lacquer in the mast to be redeemed.)

So the grave is just the wayward land-
The pioneer's celestial door-
And before he reaches his promised land
This new land he must explore.
(He revolves in dizzy sojourn
-Lost-
And hopes by redemption his 'sandwich ' be re-borne)

So remove those binds of sorrow and woes,
All varlets,
And do not dread words unexpectedly said,
Remember, by dying first and living last-
Your last life will never be led.