A basic sonnet. Try to stop posting so much after this one. The Final Ancient dust upon one pillow; Still, in the burning sun; Rest in a farewell meadow; where solitude is less than one Like smoke rising to the east Black and empty in the wind With no wells running deep or least a apathy that will not mend And so no boat will float on these waters that expand far and silently on beneath sand where couples stand Ancient dust; one more idle breath and what takes us to one final rest, our death