Poem: The Dying Die Alone

And in the end the dying die alone,
for every final breath is breathed alone.
I know the carpenter has made the box,
the digger still is caked in mud from work,
the clippers have been clipping flower-stalks,
and all 'twas mine is counted by a clerk,
but only I will lie under the stone—
my name forever etched upon my stone.