An Eulogy to the Number Game

One hundred and fifty-five, their fingers say
Wilting flowers on the grave where the cadavers lay
Her impaled visage, their nails will flay
The petite metallic musical box continues to play.

Twenty weeks into the game,
It all remains the same.
They burst into flames,
Or so she thought was the aim.

Five times the charm, she prays
Against the lifeless worn-out frays
Enumerating each trudging day
Eventually thrown into disarray

Countless floating apparitions
7 takes of a different rendition
A bitter taste of the blazing concoction
Irrepressible consternation obscured by capricious circumlocution

The sarcophagus devours the flesh inside
Specks of the sanguine fluid - proof of what lived before
The coffin lid perceptibly shut tight, without a gleam of sunlight
Time to allow the corpses to rest in peace before night falls

And the number game has to end some day.