The Privilege of Coffins

Where art thou my shroud?

To sit under grey skies and dark clouds

Exposed to the vermin heeding carrion's call

Six feet deep to which I can't even fall

Nor a group rest in the ossuary pit

Worthy not even of the lowliest gravedigger kit

The humid air festers and warms the feast

An aged steak for the scavenger beasts

Tallow flesh now blackened and reeking of rot

Blood in long deas veins ichorous and full of clots

The mosaic of sweet decay

Art exposed whether it be night or day

Where even is something of woven basket?

To lack even a simple casket

And ooze into the ground

Lacking the privilege of a simple coffin or mound