Under, alone.
A knock on the door, but no answer.
Cold, a winter morning.
No door, but a knock - still screaming for answer.
A church laying still.
There it stands, open -
but not for those.
Stolid they go - passing by.
Not for those laying underground.

All around - there, everything are.
Laying so still.
Waiting for no one, still -
people long.
The breeze will whisper;
a cold winter morning.

Under, alone.
Flowers scattered by the wind.
Pass by and stop.
Look around, take a minute and breathe.
For those laying still -
time will no matter.
For time no longer exist -
for those laying underground.