Cold hands, shattered hearts, empty eyes,

Nobody prepares for the day someone dies.

The rain falls on this January day,

As we kneel before the casket ready to pray.

The sky is crying for this soulless life,

The dead baby’s mom has a heart stabbed with a knife.

The trees are naked like the baby in this box*,

The world is weeping for this baby with the eyes of a fox.

She will never grow up to play the game that begins with “knock.”

“Knock-knock” “Who’s there?”

But don’t kids see nobody is here?

We live to die, but talking about death makes us cry.

But why? For every hi ends with a goodbye.

The baby will be lowered into a gaping hole of dirt,

Covered with the earth and all of this family’s hurt.

 The grim reaper has taken another soul,

Left people with an unamending hole.

The last tears are shed,

Acceptance that this baby has been buried, dead.

*By box I mean what people are placed in before they are set into the Earth. Many states have strict laws permitting laying a dead body into the earth bare, so many cemeteries put the body into a wooden box before placing it in the grave.