Death's Head

The dead lay warm in their graves as the sun and seas roll over them oblivious to their sleep, and not only am I envious of the warmth but positively fascinated. The subject is a burning vine through my heart, a stitch in my hungry soul.
One would think that the amount of time we spend dead is sufficient reason to stop me from constantly returning to the grim topic but like a cat toying with its terrified prey I find reason (and occasionaly comfort) in wallowing in morbid thoughts and ideas.
Executions, alcohol, disease, tragedy; everything skull shaped invades my mind. Blood salts my insatiable tongue. I see no joy in death and do not possess the serial killers lethal attraction to it, I am plain morbid. Ghoulish, I delight in the title. I want to read the eyes of someone being executed to look for clues to the afterlife.
There is nothing new about writing about death, my ilk have been immersed in it since time began and I have decided to add my thoughts to the grisly mix. I ought to be comfortable with death, afterall it sits on my shoulder daily like a stubborn imp but I am not. There is little fear in death itself, more the dying. I doubt Id be courageous under gunfire, but quite settled in drinking myself to the grave. (A long process with lots of pit stops I should imagine).
What frustrates me the most is leaving a loved one behind - that death can rob us in such a miserable way is an affront to all that is decent and fair.
We can think this without sounding like a spoilt child because the ultimate plan is beyond our reach.
There must be clues on the face of the dying. Is it in the grimace of pain? Or in the pinched look on a corpse? Some people are quite peaceful looking after leaving their mortal shackles. Beyond suffering, their final silent statement that death is not so bad afterall.