The underneath whispers to me incessantly with sweet promises of eternal peace. It says, The flesh is fragile and temporary; all you have to do is close your eyes and release. It comes to me in my vulnerability saying softly, Victor, I know that you are tired and that you unceasingly weep; I am the underneath — in me you will find the comfort of deep sleep. The body is still, still, storms rage beneath linen sheets. Darkness hides sorrowful eyes that weep. There is no more warmth after the heart ceases to beat. Many faces smile, but a deep and draining torment lies underneath. At the lowering, hypocrites throw roses and weep after writing bullshit carbon copy eulogies for the deceased. From foul breath and diseased teeth they utter generic garbage like, He’s now in a place of peace. On the dime of the deceased they consume alcoholic drinks, and gluttonous pigs do eat. The underneath embraces its permanent residents over six feet deep. The whispers of it still echo, urging the living despondent to finally let go.