One Hour Ater The Dance Of Death

I lay in the abyss, where twisting squeezing The lowest form of life pushed itself peristaltically. Where slippery and slimy worm and eel entwined, I was a worm myself, overwhelmed with exhaustion. This lasted an eon before I succeeded, And one of my senses could slowly lift itself up, The sense of hearing. Listening, it scouted out if The dancer, Death, had finally waltzed into the distance. I eavesdrop breathless. Then a sparkling chromatic scale Flows wanly from the open window next door. Maybe Death is sitting there tuning his piano. And while my life enjoys zestfully eating and fills with gas, I feel him lean in that requisite little side room, Where he invisibly reads, rustling the evening paper.