A hole

Death is what I hate 
to think about 
but always do--
my beloved self 
sprinkled to
the bottom 
of a shaft--
a moonless pit
of everlasting 
night, 
my flesh no longer 
flesh but chimney 
grime.
A hole with no decor 
or time, devoid 
of all accord, 
of wonder,
where nothing will 
or can be done, 
where everyone 
sleeps
with everyone