there lies tragedy
just beyond the hills
of stones that dot the
fields of the listless dead
*
whatever rest
that was promised
lays unslept
*
treacherous livingness
slithers hither and thither
and nibbles at the ashes
drying upon the waves
hurrying to capture
the soul that remains
trapped in the clutches
of its cursers
*
mercy be upon
all those who slumber
in the slighted hope
of idleness
intotheindigo 
In my youth
when I praised rest
I was idle.
Now,
a bit older,
but not old,
I am afraid-
and the work seems daunting.
I see the dead always
before my face they stand
and gaze upon my living
and cannot trade places.
Everywhere the stones
they stretch so far away
Let me learn to live
and let
not
memory
cripple me,
but let me hope.
Thought-provoking =) thank you for sharing this =)
I feel that poetry often cries for a response in verse and that it can go on for quite some time before it is sated. You are most welcome, of course. Cheers.