Without a Soul to Call His Own

Eyes are replaced by arachnid legs
And flesh consumed by worms,
Wood of coffin is water-logged
And to dust a man returns.

His soul is not found anywhere
Because his God forgot to make one,
And maybe his study of the after-life
Wasn`t all he could have done.

He spent his leisure reciting scripture
And it fell on eager ears,
But there was no 'bearded old man'
Guiding him through the years.

The pages, laden with ink, will rot,
Along with his mortal frame,
After decades of fearing death
And existing in only name.

He would lie awake and wonder,
Pumping tar through vessel and vein
If he would pass on to non-existence
Via absence of His reign.

Yes, he would lie awake at night,
With lungs inspiring fear,
And the darkness would surround him
Like the demons of his book.
He would tremble and tear,
But his 'God' refused to look.

No, heaven did not uptake him,
Nor does hell, to pieces, break him,
He receives no lashes,
For he is only ashes
Because to dust he has returned.