Some Little Thoughts

The final bed is never red
And green is never seen:
Its white pure, trite white
Which shrouds us, all, in satin or silk,
Cloth that well never feel;
In life, we slept on cotton sheets,
But death is worth much more;
For the hypocrite and the whore
Are we, and death robs us, all,
Of the faculty, to love, to laugh, to cry, to see. 

Our worthless hulks of skin and bone,
Devoid of sight, of feelings, of sound:
No more smiles;
No more tears;
Of life thats left, spirit dispossessed;
The mark of man, one for one: No more:
Gone; bereft; transition almost complete.
We shall hear no more, the little joys replete.
In the shallow pit, where the coffin will sit
We say goodbye with, perhaps, a tear perhaps, a sigh. 

The final bed is never red
And green is never seen:
Its white pure, trite white. 

In life, no doubt, we should have done much more,
But now that time has fled.
Death, the robber of all,
Of things, that should have been,
Of words, that should have been said.
We fail to love when health abides,
To taste life, hour by hour,
Those happy days, now, gone sour,
Neer to return, hurrying us, all, closer to that final bed
To which, forever, we shall belong: Sound resonates that loving, definitive song. 

The final bed is never red
And green is never seen:
Its white pure, sightless, white.