An island where the death are laid
Ephemerality
Alone perhaps the eternal rest
An open cemetery
Not buried
Left to lie at rest
With eyes no longer seeing
The sky above
A phantom state
An epitaphic being
Relics of those
Who came before
Scattered in the sun
Dined upon by beetles
And ants and overun
With age a shrine of soulfulness
A scattering perhaps
A picture of mortality
Finally underwraps
An island now in Bali
An island of the dead
A Sweet smelling tree
The story goes
Perhaps the air is fed
By lifelessness and peacefulness
Behold the scampering hordes
The reapers and the levellers
With their tiny swords.