In sombre lie

For on my bed a seeing eye  
the thunder in the distance  
rumbles.
The heavy hand that stalks my soul  
and pulls it down.  
Poppies in the withered fields  
amongst the dead to ever stumble  
and on my mask  
the ever painted frown.  
 
A candle spits upon its taper  
a pause to extinguish or survive,  
like organ pipes where notes  
rise like ashes from the crater,  
and shadows move if brought alive.  
 
With stifulled tear, the ebbing tide  
for some have walked a gentle slope.  
Not fought with demons, spit purple fire of vitriol,  
some the Davey lamp, the coalface choke,  
pneumatic drills, the blasting hole.  
Toil to break, while others warm their toes  
calcify my bones and melt my flesh  
and sing the sombre suite, that's death  
 
The fog that swirls,  
each signpost blank