death’s final rest (or ‘i dreamt death was dead’)

death fell down dead from an ache in his head,
and the angels rejoiced and voiced their annoyances.
we dressed death in black and we took him back,
went down to the morgue (he’d been there before),
and laid him out along the floor.
death wasn’t weighty, he was all cloak and bone,
and the set of his eyes was sallow as stone.
then we dug death a ditch, all alone on the pitch,
and we lowered him down,
to a moan from the lips of the grassless ground.
the mourners were many (i’m surprised there were any),
and most of them groaned about the way the sun shone.
death dropped down into the dark,
and the light got that much brighter.
“a fighter was he,” said the reverend, “he fought to the end.”
then we all paid respects, and thought of what’s next,
while death lay down dead in our land,
suspectedly (though not definitely) done in by his own hand.