Black harrowed heels click on the pavement outside,
So conscious of living it leaks from their eyes.

Names engraved on golden plates catch the light,
A final attempt to show a glimmer of life.

I remember the face of my first client,
the cold fingered corpse staring back at me.

Carrying their sorrows in eighty four unjust inches,
I deliver denial and disbelief.

If only death would take its turn,
and lie down in our place.

“If only”, as I put the final lid on life,
beginning and ending the breathing strife.

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