Lament of the Living

It lays in patience,
waiting for the heart
to cease or skip a beat.

Praying for the moment
the eyes grow blind;
body turns weak.

It does its job well,
reminding those who lay
among its label; beneath these feet.

These feet who trot around the living,
and belong to a body who breathes.

I am in awe of the grayness of it,
and its cold exterior that gazes
into the smoldering pit of me.

It writes my end upon the stone,
etched and carved well,
so that it cannot be rubbed away
by my angry scrubbing.

The dates sketched on its edges
are like dust to my mind,
I do not know how it came to be.

The death marker does its best
to tell the living of the inevitable.

But we have yet to listen,
for surprise crosses our face
every time the wrists of the living are bled.