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He fell to the floor with the very last beat
And never did breathe again.
No one was nearby to help him survive,
For he had not a single friend.

Awareness was in his surroundings.
He knew that perhaps he had died . .
Upon seeing his agonized body convulse,
Then breathe out one last suffering sigh.

Bewilderment then came upon him.
His mind grasped outward for truth.
Where was the tunnel and where was the light:
Those stories from out of his youth?

Then a cold, steely calm overtook him.
Understanding and irony seeped through.
Tunnels and light were for heaven bound souls;
Those going to hell get a far different view.

As the bad day wore on and another one dawned,
He was forced to accept his grim fate.
And to face the hard fact he must pay for each act,
For his greed, for his lies, for his hate.

He determined that hell just might suit him quite well,
For he'd garnered low marks in life's test.
What he needed just now, was to get there somehow . .
Become one with the worst of hell’s best.

Soon the pitch and the sway of his coffin,
Toward a hole freshly sculptured nearby.
No funeral, no friends, just a few muffled sounds:
Not for him, would there be sad goodbyes.
 
Then he felt the grave swallow his casket;
Dull thuds of moist earth soon grew dim.
Felt horror and dread in the silent, pitch black,
Implored Satan to now come for him.

But no one would come, because no one could hear,
Silent screams from the depths of his vault.
He lies there in the dark, imprisoned in rot,
With the knowledge his fate is his fault.

And his wait will go on, forever, then some:
Like dead leaves fallen into a well.
Jailed by the grave in foul suit of decay . . 
Screaming day after day, "This is hell!"

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