brooding over the epithet of my grave,
trapped as the maker's slave.
n'sync to my own insanity,
destined to be six feet under.
a vice grip of the reality of my life,
staying away from the the end of the tunnel's light.
contemplating the beginning and the end;
a one way trip,
with no going back,
not knowing when it's going to come,
nor the set time of date.
like my serious grave of epitome:
the gravity of ashes and dust on my tomb,
severity of darkness of what we don't already know,
that in which we must overcome.
a fear of the undertow,
crucial to the aftermath of the afterlife.
as your ember of fire dies;
hoping that it's quick and painless,
cause you don't know whether you're going to heaven or hell!