The Dead Man's Tale

I had an inkling of what was to come,
As I ambled as best I could along the cobbled street,
A cloudy sky hung with an air that made me glum,
Whilst above, dirty brick chimneys bellowed smoke,
The entirety of life out of the city's people it did choke.

The people; nothing more than bodies without souls,
Automatons of flesh and blood, yearning for teat.
I knew that my life had worsened without goals,
Making sharp and anxious turns as the rolling of a barrel,
Towards a downward spiral into ominous peril.

But that peril did not sway me from reaching my latch.
I made my way into the darkened chamber without heat,
A candle I lit with the striking of a sulfur match.
The smell of the expired matchstick rose I feared,
For I wanted my neighbors to think I had disappeared.

I was buried deep in the hillside and awaited my death,
But all that had come were remorseless woes to greet.
Frantically I had sucked in the foul air, my last breath,
But solemnly nobody came befitting a hero,
They resemble such tyrants as Hipparchus and Nero.

Thrust upon the door I managed, opening it loudly.
Who gained upon me from behind was death as dark as peat,
He stood before me in all his glory proudly.
I kneeled before his mighty stature to beg to him and pray,
Alas, he nevertheless nodded and took my soul away.