NEW POETIC ORDER

We trust ourselves in the hands of sleep

But her sister called death we do fear 

Immortality, is it not what we all seek 

When our inevitable doom does fall near 

But a familiar comfort surely it must be 

Unable to feel, taste, hear, nor see. 

In our soft soft bed 

Or in our soft soft casket 

What difference does it make 

Even when burnt to ashes.