A distant death knell tolls,
So deafening yet meek.
I wonder where the steeple is,
In this meadow dry and bleak.
Trailing shallow footprints,
Trudging in the withered grass,
Ears ringing from the bell,
I have reached the church at last.
A lone skeletal framework
Holding up the wretched knell,
Swaying through the murky skies.
What dread and glee shall it foretell?
A hole is dug in dirt beneath it,
A predetermined grave for me,
For my flesh and weary spirit.
From here I shall never flee.
Lying down with both eyes shut,
I sensed a figure above mine.
From the hole I tried to jut,
As I glanced at eyes that shine.
