Deathly Undertakings

In shadowed halls where silence grows, And moonlight cuts through blackened rows, A whisper stirs the midnight air— The dead don’t sleep, they simply stare.

Beneath the ground, in tombs so deep, Lie secrets time refused to keep. Their echoes claw through coffin seams, To haunt the edges of our dreams.

The undertaker, pale and grim, Moves like fog—both slow and slim. He knows the toll of every bell, And walks the winding path to Hell.

With shovel sharp and lantern cold, He tends to bones and stories old. Each grave he digs, a tale he hears— Of love, regret, of blood and fears.

A widow weeps, a child moans, Their voices stitched in ancient stones. But still he works through storm and cry, For death is busy—so is he, thereby.

No prayer, no scream, no final plea Can stop what’s meant, what has to be. For when you knock on fate’s dark door, You’ll find his boots upon your floor.

So heed the night, and light your way— For deathly undertakings stay. They thrive where living dares not tread… And write their tales among the dead. NNN