Konundrum

I push aside my earthy shroud,
And raise up my fetid hand.
Oh to feel the breeze back on me,
And on my own feet stand.
I can hear a pen that’s scratching,
As a poet lays his worth.
He doesn’t seem to have heard me,
As I clamber from the earth.

I decide to sit and listen,
From atop my own headstone.
This man he intrigues me,
Made of flesh and blood and bone.
I watch him for a while,
No sound about the night.
His pen remains at paper,
His hand in ghostly light.

I can only sit in wonder,
As this mortal wastes his time.
Why bother with mere verses,
That always end in rhyme.
In life things seem endless,
But that is not the case.
Soon my dear poet,
You will be laid to waste.

Your work will be forgotten,
Your name inscribed in stone.
And like me you will be a watcher,
And you shall be alone.