How sinister the clover in this bed
that lays in wait for me.
Not to be laid upon but under
now my heart no longer thunders
in rhythmic harmonies.

How lurid is the bird
that sings strange funeral melodies
in yonder leaning tree.
With notes that float to be unheard
as dark accompaniment to my strange destiny. 

How morbid, too, the buzzing just above
of this fuzzily bumbling bee.
Seeking to make honey I’ll never taste
now that I lay in waste
for all eternity.

Yet how absolutely perfect it all is.
How darkly beautiful all things be.
As the triumphant sacrament of life
endures the futile sacredness of death
to perpetuate the Great Mystery.