There’s a sweet acrid clog rising up 

From the depths. 

Ah, an old friend. I thought you had died. 

Walking on graves, snakes down my spine

Summons you it seems. 

Can die, be dying, mourn. 

But not mourning seems a sin. It leads

Back to dying. 

And the clog isn’t exactly bitter, not yet. 

But it’s rising, building. 

Erratic in how it comes about. 

I know I’ll die when I get back. 

My coffin of solitude awaits for me 

To lie in. Who knows how long this 

Time I’ll cease to exist. 

Paper thin walls will transform, no one will

Hear, cause no-one will care. The (coffin) is a