Yesterday, he woke to the mechanical groans of a living city. Today, he woke to the guttural groans of a dead city.
Yesterday, he watched over a library of buried stories—their first and last page numbers are engraved on stone. Today, he watched as they unearthed themselves, continuing through decaying pages.
Yesterday, he ate breakfast to silence the growls inside him. Today, he ate to the sound of restless growls outside.
Yesterday, he trimmed the branches of trees he had once planted. Today, he trimmed the limbs of people he had once buried.
Yesterday, he raked dead leaves away from headstones. Today, he saw the dead leave their headstones behind.
Yesterday, he dug a hole in the dormant body of death his lone house rests on. Today, the dead crawled out of their holes to dig into the bodies of the living.
Yesterday, he placed a headstone on a newly-made dirt bed. Today, he used that granite pillow to reduce heads to stones washed in pink and red.
Yesterday, he mowed the lawn to keep it from looking like his unkempt hair. Today, he mowed down dozens of people with the same shovel he had used to make their beds.
Yesterday, he stared into a red bowl of remaining cereal during dinner. Today, he stared into bloody bowls of remaining brains.
Yesterday, he showered his suicidal thoughts away, while the world committed it—it could no longer handle its people with their cancerous politics and pollution. Today, the dead have risen from the world’s dirt-filled gashes.
Yesterday, he placed a cross on another day with his pen—another yesterday buried in the graveyard of calendar pages on his bedroom walls. Today, the hundreds of yesterdays he’s buried outside have ripped through their graves.
Yesterday, the immortal cemetery caretaker hopelessly prayed for death before he went to sleep. Today, it’s still knocking on his door.