Disclaimer:Again... I wrote this so I have no need of one :)
(Please don't steal, copy, claim... Thank you)
Death's Plight
A wisp of light, formed from a death,
A soul becomes a ghost
A voice with barely veiled scorn,
Now tells him of his boast
The voice, he said, was called to speak
To tell man where they'll go
Mocks him now with prayers of hope,
Ghost's one and only foe
To save the soul, declaring "truths"
The dead ne'er sold nor bought
The ghost, he sneers, and tries to laugh
Realizing what he's got
He hears the hopes and dreams mankind
Has littered on his grave
The speech, paid for with greed and gold,
To send him on his way
All lies proclaimed upon his death,
A funeral pyre he deems
The irony of faith, of God,
That all's not as it seems.