There is a beauty to the dead, that quiet countenance,
that soft, relaxed, untroubled face, which worms will feast on hence.
There is a beauty to be dead, to rest within a box.
There is a beauty, so she said, but I trust not that vox.
A ghostly voice has troubled me with offers in the night,
with gentle tones, unearthly grace, that's silenced by the light.
A ghostly voice is hounding me, it won't let me alone.
A ghostly voice which I can see, calls from a pit of bones.
And many be the dead below
who with that voice did go.
And yes, a beauty's in this siren song,
but they all hold their grins for far, far too long.
Tale Told 