Dear diary, this is my first and final entry,
For I have failed. My family tree has been upheaved.
With two cinder blocks I brought
About my mentor's ends;
Crushed their skulls, left them for dead.
Not yet have I prepared their bodies for embalming,
But set them both aside until the perfect moment
To drain their fluids, cork their openings.
Their superficial fascia is too tender for exploring.
Spit shine caskets; load the Hertz;
Choose the grave sites that's my life.
Now I own the parlor, this patronymic hell.
Dad's words ring inside my ears:
"Son, dress the body well.
Leave the victim's mourning siblings
With a lasting vision
Of their lost and reconstructed, dehydrated kin".
Pictures of ancestors decorate these darkened halls.
A heritage of caring for the lurid.
Spit shine... I'd rather take my life.
I confess. I caused this town unrest
In attemp to get more business. I sought to decimate
And defecate the populace like so much waste.
Kryptosporidium, my microbe of choise
Brought thirteen fresh... cold and lifeless.
They were quickly douched and sewn
Like my predecesors vaulted under the viewing room.
Each was gifted. I lack their expertise.
As the parlor's only heir, I am so unworthy.
I am so unworthy. I'll lead no corteges.
A funeral home delinquent. Au revoir my diary.

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