Beyond the meadow past the trees ,
Lie the shadows no one sees ,
Where birds may pirch
But never sing ,
And death awaits for all who grieve.
On our minds and on display for everyone to see,
Respect for those who've passed away
are portrayed by flowers we bring,
Headstones , urn's ,names and dates granite , bronze , and raught iron gates
It's always visceral to visit this place
That mortalizes our soul,
And securly seals our fate .
You can preach you can pray, but for each of us at the end of the day,
Our body's will be laid to rest and final respects paid in the most sacred way.
Somethings might never change
It's our destiny to be placed amongst a yard of graves with markers of names, and life dates, and age, won't it be great plus a little bit strange .
It's a place to rest the end of slack
Where are dearly departed go and never come back....