The Resurrectionist

Heaving like scoops of dirt
Flung from spades
My boots layered
With musk from wooden caskets

Prying fingers, moving nails
It smiles at me from beyond the grave
Visage of an eldritch horror
A reminder of what would become of me

Would I gaze at my captors, wide eyed, stretched grin and shrivel dead?
To be taken far from my resting place
Comforts of my bed, Six-feet-under
Would I too become nothing more than a mere cadaver?