The Graveyard

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.