Crepe Hanger Poem by Joe Corbett

With the prospect, of imminent death
creeping towards, that final breath.

Out of respect, or age old myth
windows draped, black as pitch.

Bell tolls, as the Reaper nears
cast away, consuming fears.

Parlor windows, creped in black
by this way, you won`t be back.

Crepe it may, or may not bleed
draped in black, as life recedes.

Lined and tufted, velvet bed
pre indented, for a head.

Parlor reeks, of fresh cut wood
elders heads, draped with hoods.

Laid out is, party dress
nearing time, for final rest.

The darkened room, dimly glows
soon are eyes, forever closed.

Bearer summoned, rights are read
closing in, a time of dread.

O Crepe Hanger, bide your time
O Crepe Hanger, life`s still mine.

Let this clock, tic it`s coarse
plenty of time, for remorse.

Whispers fill, the echoed halls
alas we here, the criers call.

O Crepe hanger, you shall concede
from this world I shall secede.

Center piece that I`ve become
a rigid corpse, cold and glum.