Life in Death
What horrors have those worms that feed on death
For me?. None, though my crawling flesh dissolves
From bones more fragile than the brittlest shell.
For, when Death’s cloying hand smothers my breath
And stops my mind’s still unfulfilled resolves
Within this brain’s grey mould, my Geist shall well
Escape carnal corruption’s blight to climb
The ladder of its hopes towards some new
Existence in a future without end,
Free from the prisonage of binding time
And feeble competence. (Nor shall I rue
Absence of hardships which I must contend).
Death’s worms may chew my body into primal dust
But shall not taste my Geist, which will transcend its crust.
