Endless it Seems

Endless it seems.
A tombstone to signify,
but what does it mean?
To die is something beautiful,
holding secrets the living can't see.
Is dreaming the key in which we keep?
Does breathing matter in your soul so deep?
Images of life haunt the best of me.
What if each word I speak, is the opposite of what I mean?
Beyond the grave, this frame I was,
rots beneath the dirt and leaves.
The crow, it screams.
For shrills of terror underneath.
Picking at flesh, teeming with disease.
Nothing but hollow bones, under trees.
And the wind it blows, rustling the leaves,
knocking down trees, as the crow continues to sceam,
endless it seems.