The Ancient Soil

MissT

🌿 Ancient Soil

When Death comes, I brace as shadows close;
my lungs reach for the thinning air.
I whisper that I’m not prepared,
that I am trembling here.
But Death leans in and murmurs low:
“I’m gentler than you knew—
come rest within the quiet now;
I only carry you.”

When Death comes, I will be ready
to earn my final sleep,
to feel the earth surround me close,
to settle, still and deep.

The bugs and creeping crawlies
will become my sacred friends,
feasting on my body
in a banquet that never ends.

To dust I shall return,
to ashes I shall burn;
the lessons and the heartaches
all behind me in the urn.
My family will remember,
and drink to memory;
then life will carry on without me,
as it was meant to be.

In the grand scheme, nothing lingers
from cradle to crypt is fast.
Our bodies weather, crumble, fade;
nothing living’s built to last.
My skin will fold to soil,
as worms weave silver threads,
turning flesh to ancient earth
where the quiet hunger spreads.

And there I’ll lie in peaceful dark,
where mortal echoes cease
no sorrow, ache, or longing left,
just everlasting peace.