Downcast and under,
I am writing from 10 feet under,
Rotting away beneath the life above,
I wonder what others would make of me now that I'm under.
Of what stories would be said of what tales would be told of me,
Even though I'm dead the thought breathes life to me.
In what light would they cast me, good or bad,
Portray me a Saint or maybe a sinner or,
Perhaps maybe something in between, a flawed person like everyone else.
Or maybe they would just forget me and the place I rest
Now that would be sad, a sad though to have,
For family and friends to forget you after you're dead.
Having your grave strewn with leaves
A desolate place with not a soul to give care to clean.
Not a single soul to reminisce a memory of you
Nothing but a forgotten friend, a loved one left behind.

My bones creak as the maggots eat my flesh
What an unsightly thing it would be if I wasn't dead.
Such a small space to be confined in below dirt ground
I can hear my fellow dead neighbours moaning across from me below ground
Perhaps they too find their final resting place cramped and dark.
I can hear it, the world above,
People passing by, to visit their loved ones who've passed,
But alas for me, I remain alone
None to visit with flowers nor yo speak words of care.
I have been here alone since they laid me to rest
My family my friends, none have shown up so far
Perhaps I'm to slumber alone for eternity in darkness, ten feet under.