Crypt

The stench of shadows long since gone,

Creep solemnly among these walls.

A diamond cut within the stones,

Buries some rich person

Here, no doubt.

Stone cutters lent no attention back then

To fashioning stone for lesser men.

No bricks beneath, just solid work,

Pleasing a family of aristocrats

Who valued it by cost.

Kept up to this day, though dark and wet,

Rats scurry in like trespassers.

Collages of skeletal remains suggest

Someone might have been buried alive,

But history is inconclusive.

Scraping among the shaded walls

Firelight wears thin from torches

As I find her sitting here in ugliness.

There aren’t jewels upon her crown…

Only wormed holes in graying ivory.

Long white hair replacing auburn,

A hallowed stare that sees no light…

No longer a Matriarch of higher caste,

In concomitance with insects

She’s my personal queen of pests.

My conjecture has always been

That we are buried as we have lived.

No flowers are placed within a tomb,

No one drops by on holidays

To say I loved you when…

So give me a pauper’s grave my friend,

Where my sweeties can oft drop by,

To shoot the breeze in soft refrain

Or tell me through sunshine and the rain…

Remember me? I loved you when…

The end?