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“Dead men tell no tales?”
Have you not heard the symphony of how one decays?
The clicks and chatters of bones rustling against each other as they’re trampled on by the fauna that they never knew,
The rustle of wind through one’s hair, similar to the great weeping willow,
The squeeze of muscle and flesh as the divine earth reclaims what it has lost from the dust we came from,
The squelch of eyes decaying and flattening as they go foggy, unable to view the blue sky above them,
The rattle of their final breath, trying to articulate the view before death brings them home in their arms,
They still tell their tales, you’re just not listening close enough