Six Feet Under Poem by Aimee Rozen

My grandmother lies motionless,
eyes closed,
lips curled into a gentle smile.
Every wrinkle seems
more defined than they did,
when she was alive.
Her coffin is glossy black
on the outside.
Satin lines the inside,
shows her elitist views.
There is no smell,
yet.
I'm sure,
when she is lowered into the ground,
the worms will start to eat
away her body.
The rot will fill the casket,
the cream satin will turn yellow,
with mold.
The glossy black paint
will chip away,
showing the ugly brown
colors of the dirt.
The casket will disintegrate,
just as my grandmother has
passed on.
Leaving nothing but memories,
and a full bank account