Vaults of horrible death

The termites of my new world have sharper teeth, More honed than the timid ones from where I hail. Slashing the sti coldness of a corpse until it inches in searing pain

Was I not long dead before they connived to kill me again?

My screams are too loud for a mere dead man's tormented dream

Startling the peace of pot- bellied maggots sleeping yonder of my ill-shod feet,

Inciting angry growls from one of a fresh grave's many secluded corridors

I have just courted the malicious curiosity of otherwise reclining black-coated ants

Who in their correctly placed and safely anchored senses,

Who would canvas for a handshake with irate graveyard spiders?

This death is not the tri ing business of make-believe spoilt children’s father- mother plays

The feint hearted would rather die rst before they can face the torment of this terrible demise