Rigor Mortician.

Taking in the scenery.
Spitting out the light.
Leaning on the edges of the never-resting night.
There is a mark...
On the emptiness I carry.
Signing my face to the shadows of the dark.

Let me peer through the aperture...
Stitch away this muffled sneer.
Just for one moment.
One little year.

Let me not be the follower...
And fall with the blind tears.
Bond me to the carcass,
With nothing to fear.

I want to taste this sight,
But with something of a deep sweet.
Sugary black...
Seasoning of bitter Fall.
May I devour my own soul?
Or will it taste just as bitter?
May I rid the disease?
Or am I immune to it all?

Blood courses through veins,
Violet capillaries of Death.
Hearing the faint mumble somewhere in the shadows...

If only I could speak,
Maybe even form the words...
Might I then respond, might I then be less shallow...

The coffin is closed,
And someone's inside.
Could their flesh be warm, and mine own be cold?

The Reaper is anxious,
And something's outside.
Leaving stiff flesh here, but whisked away with a soul.