When the earth shakes

And the streets ripple

The dusty bones in deep graveyards

Will shake awake

They’ll break out of wooden coffins

And move closer to the moon

Away from the same gravity that made them old and dead.

And when they open my fancy box

After all the rumble clears

And the dust settles

It’ll be empty, except for a note

Scratched with dirty fingernails

That reads

“Too quiet. Left to find good music.”