Tucked down beneath six feet of history
Are, wrapped up delicately in a pine
Slumber, memories sewn back into skin.
On the threshold of death’s great mystery
Is slow decay creeping up through the spine
That only lives then feasts then dies again.
Shroud of darkness blankets calm misery,
Hiding how rigid lays the most reclined.
Grains of dust mark the passing years within.
The hole’s mouthful fills with stiff energy,
Times teeth clamp on delicacy divine,
This vessel bound ’round a vessel of sin.
All dressed up for that final interview,
But has no eyes to see his tie’s askew.