The Vault

There is a vault that lies in secret
A safe of sorts where the dead do not rest
They're turned and churned and gnashed and burned
With acid as they simmer deep in the pit

And the vault is young barely an eighth of a hundred old
But the inside is corroded, its soft walls full of holes
And things climb up in it, they hatch and eat and grow
And make the holes bigger, their fat ripe bodies cloned

But on the outside the vault is but new
The smell becomes tolerable after a time
The contents don't spill, a waterfall of red
But are locked with the key, a white sticker

by which all those things are entombed