Sittin' With the Dead

Angus sat, his thoughts perplexing,

Regarding each shadow there;

No thing moving, twitching, flexing,

As he sat in the old leather chair.

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The sound of rain came pelting down

On the old roof made of tin.

Inside the library not a sound,

Was heard above the din.

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Uncle Eli, still and cold,

Stretched out in his repose;

His life’s good stories left untold,

As Angus picked his nose.

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A stubborn man, old Eli was,

Unmissed by Angus Smee,

His boots scraping at some carpet fuzz

As the old clock chimed at three.

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To him Eli was a mean old man

Who'd cut him from the will,

And as he sighed he rose to stand.

In the room, there passed a chill.

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A voice not unfamiliar came

To Angus’s weary ear,

The voice and Eli’s, one and the same,

Piquing the nephew’s fear.

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“’What have you done, for me old man?’

I've often heard you ask,

But I have done all that I can,

It was you who failed the task.

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“The Lord sets down upon us men,

His wishes to uphold,

I owed you nothing, now nor then,

If tonight, the truth was told.

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“And I guess someone must have punished you,

Or someone else instead,

Would've been here with me, a vigil true,

While sitting with the dead.”

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The voice was gone, dumb Angus sighed,

And scratched his dullard head.

He frowned, although he laughed inside,

“But yore de one who’s dead.”

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Then next he knew the darkness came,

The lid closed over his eyes.

Though he screamed and called for help,

No one could hear his cries.

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For he was being buried now,

Fear crumbling into dread.

Angus Smee deceased somehow.

Eli? Sitting with the dead.

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This was written for HandsomelouiiThePoet's (Lonzo ward's) Darkest Poetry Challenge, which you can find below! Happy Spooky Season!