Black painted hearse idles slowly, Procession follows at a morbid pace, The pallbearers steady in their march, Befitting this most sacred ceremony Ornate brass handles clasped By solemn faced black clad men Shining black casket lid Inlaid in crimson silk In there lies your father, son.... A father to a son and a son to a father Now claimed by the coldest hand of death Faintest scent of fresh cut white rose petal Choked by the musty scent of fresh turned earth Funereal they march......

Sounds just like Asunder