The skull of the man
lies rotted, marked by holes,
filled with worms.
The flesh consumed by creatures,
long avoided in life,
the blood becoming lost,
seeping deeply into the earth,
fed upon by hell.

The man’s body gone,
his sins forever,
guilt forcing his remains down.
The suit was Armani,
the watch a favorite,
a Bulova, silver and sleek,
like his hair had been
before the maggots had their way.

He raped, he stole,
but connections kept his body alive,
although his fate upon death stood sealed
since childhood.
His victims were dead in body,
but their souls flew high,
their ashes spread across monuments of joy,
while his bones became ashes of misery.

His spine lays in anguish,
crooked and stiff,
leaving its owner frozen,
a picture of agony and bodily corruption,
A single worm rests where his penis
one stabbed the jewels of creation.
It had rotted first, followed by the mind
which planned every move he made.

He cruelly died in peace,
asleep beneath satin,
the same fabric now peeling
from the oak of his coffin,
a new home for a decaying evil.
He would never rest in peace,
as the sordid creatures of the dirt,
crawl endlessly.

And he lays beneath verdent green,
rolling hills of dew drops and soft ground,
where flowers bloom and trees sit proudly and tall,
where the rain blesses the life,
and falls softly on a stone that reads:
“Here Lies The Embodiment of the Modern World”.