Narrative

A night after the funeral. 
A night left alone. 
I don't think I can fully understand, Elizabeth, 
the failure of compassion in my voice, as I write even this. 
To see you cold... 
wrapped in the only blankets that you truly ever deserved... 
to see you dead. 
It must've been my heart playing tricks, 
playing tricks on my mind, 
that put such a disturbing smile onto your lips... 
the wrath in your voice, as you told me the end of my life. 
The coming of sweet death. 
...but how you failed to understand, love. 
How indeed, 
my genius wrought upon you such ill a demise. 
How your fortune, 
I clearly snatched from the cold of your fingers themselves! 
Left only for the gaze of your bottomless eyes... 
...for if you only knew... 
that the only man you ever loved, 
loved only the money that you had ever had.

Grubs Of The Sepulcher