The Undertaker’s Dream
Daylight faded, slumber called him into the night,
The undertaker rested, his work now out of sight.
His dreams took morbid turns, as they always would,
Of caskets, graves, and teary eyes— things he understood.
Along a dreamscape's road he walked, tombstones stood for miles,
Shovel clutched, he chose a plot, began to dig a while.
This grave is for himself, he dreamily realized in surprise,
Hate's last breath at your doorstep, in his "Here Lies" eyes.
All and through the evening, his digging did not cease,
Carry on, carve out the hole for tomorrow's new release.
No escape or help, only, I think of scales of truth—
That his life would end right here, not any fountain of youth.
As alternate truth vied, forever in a rush towards his finale,
Nearing the End of Days awaited without dally.
Not just the undertaker's dream—
But unnatural motives there to guide him,
Backward curiosity the reason,
His role a corpse to be would bind him.
On waking he was caught, with his hand in his own till,
The grave before him, really, his own coffin soon to fill.