Shroud of Doubt (short story/poetry)

\\~ The dead hadn't walked the earth since Venice. The blockage of blood hadn't yet flowed out, for the dead will stay in their tomb until the sun departs. The sun departing was the least of one's concern; the departure of love had rang its bells of doom. A love long lost, a love long found, hadn't any mercy to a heart gone wrong. To a soul gone bitter or a mind gone numb; 'bare witness for what's to come'. Around the corner and down the street, where the crossroads begin to meet. A love long lost, a love long found, where their lungs begin to drown. At the puddle, beneath their feet, the blood ran steep with iron and rust. Iron thrust into the chest of those who rest, never more to walk earth with their stench of death. Breath fogs the mirrors no longer, as the soul is doomed to wander. No more, they say, striking death with much dismay, looking after the bodies that lay at bay. To be buried would be a waste, of sacred dirt they mustn't wait; spare none a clean slate. The misery of life can wait, as the pressure of fate begins to weigh; to be buried in a shroud of doubt; to be buried in a shroud of doubt.