Foggy Memories

When the soul leaves the body,
Desolate and still, rotting beneath our feet,
Where does that restless soul go?
The rest of us,
We've nowhere to go beyond this sighing creek,
And so bury what we can of this remaining husk,
Whether it be hopeful dread, listless life, the list wanders on.
Is it hopeless to bury the dead?
Can hope only be found in life everlasting?
How dreadful it is to think.