Here lie the fallen,
The aristocrats and the poor,
Where they all lie together,
And watch their loved ones mourn.

Here lie the fallen,
Their identities across their chests,
Their souls dancing celestially,
Their expired, stagnant bodies laid to rest.

Here lie the fallen,
With ravens to sing them lullabies,
Spiders to devour trespassers,
And angels’ tears to wash away their malignant cries.

Here lie the fallen,
Flowers blooming from their hearts,
Their decomposing glamour,
A decrepit form of art.

Here lie the fallen,
With trees to shade their beauty,
With leaves to prance upon the marble
Of those who finished their duty.

Here lies my eyes,
Soaking in the morbid pulchritude,
Of corpses, ravens, and trees.
‘X’ marks the spot of death’s beautiful food.