I stand at the edge of my own tomb. Bearing down the tears while the trumpets announce my doom. Two plots, one room. Hovering above the ground below. Death had come, a life had to reserve my soul. The sympathy of the living surpass my mind. As I sit beneath my hollow pine. The branches handing from the noose where once I laid. The shivering ghastly wind, corresponding to my once filled brain. For slain in many proportions, the ground is where my body did lay. So underneath the whispering pine is where my soul did decay. My life force washing away. Trudging trough the blood amongst the others slain, day after day after away. The whispering pine, grew under the tears of mine grave... - The Whispering Pine By D.L.Compton.
