Coffee Shop Poetry 3

Will it ever end?
Has it ever begun?
If I write it here, then I guess that it means yes. It has begun.
He wouldn't agree with that, oh no he would never agree with me.
He would prefer to be caught dead in his sleep, eyes closed, goofy grin, some random teeth showing. The morbid glance of death, cold staring you in the eye. Trying to fool life's own wisdom, the one we can't seem to find anymore.
Where has it gone? Where will it be?
Will I ever cross its path again?
Will it ever choose to find me?
All I got to do now is wait, hope that good things come my way one more time. Oh but just one more time, that's all I need. Oh I beg, please.

He had left his house five minutes before. The phone was ringing. Had he been there to answer, to talk to that person, to interact with another member of his own species. Had he been there to deny the accusations, stop the frustration and kill the vibration, then we would have known. Then we would have been able to say, with total certainty, that he wasn't dead. But as the phone rang, as the world turned, as life evolved, his gloryfied carcass was left behind. He was now nothing more than a footnote. Then it was erased.

All of a sudden a thud is heard. Muffled and distant. Deep in the night, void of spirit. The coffin is scratched from the inside. He knows it's too late, but he goes for it anyway. His nails are painted with blood. Crimsom tools of splinters and skin. The air is slowly being modified, his lungs now work as a backwards filter. For every breath he takes, there will be less oxygen for him to breathe. Anxiety makes his blood pressure sky rocket, he can't stop puffing. He looks around and all he sees is black death, a dark reality. At last he gives up, his brain gives in. His soul is drenched, bones and skin. His muscles are too tired, there is not enough air. There is not enough room, for him to despair. And as he takes his last sigh, draws his last breath, he closes his eyes, nods welcome to death.

The coffin lid flies open. Piles of dirt lie all around the grave. They are one second too late. He is not there anymore.