Catacombs are reaching out to drag me.
Under and under, struggling to breathe,
against what I am, I howl a plea.
Sweat soaked, bedraggled, and plotting, I seethe.
The dead will receive what their wills deny:
Whether engulfed in hatred or full blithe,
both, fairy tales, imagined to get by.
Incessant nothingness, gifts of the scythe.
When I die, I weep at the site of Life.
I remember, home I am with love, rife.