What Dreams May Come ( all rights reserved )

What of the quintessence of dust
When one's  life is a bust.
In that sleep of death what dreams may come
When you are a few ounces of ash in a box full of bums.
Majestic fools fretted by golden desires.
Being disposed of as the law requires.
A morning ride upon the bay.
A lone piper dose not play.
They'll be no shedding of tears.
No requiem masses.
Just a civil servant
and his box full of ashes
Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished.
A muddy ash consumed by fish.