Few things are as crass as the stench of corpse wax and yet lately I have been haunted by this pungent perfume of the departed and doomed. I am somehow both dying and dead as I tread amongst the pervading dread, saying but not communicating that which is spoken but unsaid.
I have long been an avid enthusiast of the sins of fermented yeast and have appreciated the finer nature and lures of the Beast but I still shudder at the encroaching mutters - those dreadful whispers that accompanied our arrival from the womb and laugh at our inevitable departure at the tomb.
Grinning pale faces in claustrophobic spaces are our final companions in the crypt amongst dead flesh both wrought and ripped. Perhaps these apparitions are welcome for those souls blessed with such guests as the company of worms and morticians and yet I am damned in the land of those not yet given to decomposition.
The gruesome prattle of the death rattle is anticlimactic as I am already deceased and rot in pain but not in peace. The songs of the whippoorwill resonate even in this institution for the mentally ill as my skin becomes clammy and finally chill.