When I die feed me to the worms

[Brownlie]

A sky that would look false had an artist captured it. -- Feel like you could have expanded on the idea in this first line more.
Grey scale clouds crafted by abstract thermals.
The olive afro canopy of a large nodding oak.
The gurning bark of its leathery furrowed trunk.

The bald liver spotted scalp of the village vicar. - Good consonance
Eyebrow caterpillars twitching as he says my name.
Nostril hair bends holding trapped dry mucus.
Moving lips stick thin lines of spit onto brown teeth.

Starch collar too tight for the grubby index finger.
Ink and paper mantra add a time frame his script.
Shirt buttons arc under tension over a pot belly.
Stained nylon trousers with iron burns on the pocket. --Good detail
Ankle socks dark with sweat pushed into black slip-ons.
Fine green blades v-shaped folds under rubber soles.
White network of writhing roots thinning into soil.
Deeper clumps of clay ready for throwing into pots.

Shingle, scree once deposited by a meandering river.
Mahogany polished to a red mirrored veneer.
Silk quilted cushions with chesterfield buttons.
Flaccid skin on bone and cartilage, foundation and blusher.

Three inches of foam, padding out half an inch of pine.
Worms race through excreted tunnels beneath the softer wood
Pulsing, Circling, sensing their prey as the first shovel-full lands.

I can't relate to your poem because I am too young. You've got some good detail but I feel you mercilessly scrutinize this priest. Maybe he deserved it or maybe it doesn't matter. I missed your greater point about death. I remember Andrew Marvell when he tells the girl her virginity will go to the worms...