...for whom the bell tolls

THE

SHROUD

Drop, drop, drip.

The limbs lose their grip

On golden possessions,

Their leaves.

Drip, drip, drop.

The loss they cannot stop

The wood stiffens up

Like it grieves.

Now glitter and gold

Are pretty to hold,

As jewels on trinkets

And lockets.

But when the leaves fall,

It’s time to recall…

At death –

The shroud has no pockets.