Dead Angel

The silent sleeping, of the dry gross dead,
is quiet as in April, as in May,
lying on the once clean white linen bed,
now green, infested death box; so perfect decay;

Crying pitty, slunk head and shoulders,
the man dressed white, talking on the pew,
shad'ws of merry memories of holders,
a pile of heart ache, a unhappy color hew.

Storm gray, rain-like childhood lingers dark,
clouds wish with all their sapt greif stricken might,
that one dead may be lucky to hear hark,
to grace the hands of the heavenly light.

A person that was once was so mighty,
has been forgotten by society.