Forgotten

Nothing moved over the forgotten hill.

Standing lost, mournful, and alone.

Everything was silent and deadly still.

Decorated by broken stone.

Hidden and trapped far below,

Lay the tombs of forgotten men.

Whose names people no longer know.

And will never be seen again.

Clothed in decay.

Hidden by twilight.

Trapped in the clay.

Entombed by the night.

Twelve square feet,

Was all that remained.

Of life’s feat,

And everything gained.

Their lives passed away,

To the abyss of the dead.

Placed where the sun’s ray,

Was prohibited to spread.

The years they lived,

Amounted to naught.

All that survived,

Was a small stone wrought,

With their name and age,

And how much they strained.

Describing what wage,

Their toil attained.

Everything came to this place,

Isolated and forgotten.

Left with a skull for a face,

Sharply carved tombstones, now rotten.

Their stories they wrote,

In silver and gold.

They cast their vote,

And ended up sold,

To the great devil who sought,

Each lost, black, and morbid soul.

The eternal prize they bought,

Was death in an endless hole.