Hand of the Undertaker (undertaker’s diary)

The undertaker’s gloves touch what was once hopeful and full of life.
He lies there, eyes open, but they see not and he is not.
The sterility of cold skin against cold metal is like a thousand winters.
The time for contemplation has ceased;
He lies; Still, he lies.
The darkness behind the eyes is like the ink of a black pen
Burst open into two round spaces of translucency and left to settle.
The discoloration of his nonexistence
is not found in the beauty of any rainbow.
The body has given up the ghost,
But does the ghost know it has left its shell?
The undertaker’s experienced hands will be
The last semblance of care given to him.

He does not know, for he is not present in the body.
They will cry over him;
they will shower him with flowers, but he will not know.

When he was here he counted the days and the hours but they did not show.
Yet they now stand there, teary eyes with a glare.
That they would throw dirt on him and walk away
Without even the remembrance of a genuine memory is blasphemy.
The undertaker takes it all in, for he has seen it many times before.
In the interim between life and death he contemplates his own mortality. 
The living go on, and the dead are mourned;
The solemn faced undertaker, the last recorder of them that breath no longer.
His last job is done for the night; he turns off the lights
And says goodnight to his silent residents whose souls have taken flight.

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