The Sound of Silence

This poem is on the feelings of an 'undertaker' who makes coffins for his livelihood. White shroud of sadness, and a mourning crowd, sounds of silence, pleasant to none, summons me to come, i hear it often. complacent i may appear to be, but i am not happy, a shoulder i can offer i know, but lose count of tears that had followed. chiseling through the wood, i wonder if i knew them, though 'feet' i did precisely measure, can i promise comfort to those who lie there? fading faces i wont remember, and names no longer matter, my hands put an end to all and tomorrow there shall be some other. some eyes do look down on me, and i don't ask why, this is what i do, i confess, for a 'living', i let their hopes die...