Post-Mortem

Their hands glide across his skin like death The coolness of hands, without emotion, felt by none 'It burns, it freezes, it hurts so much, make it stop' Is what he would say had he one breath of life left Instead he lays there with a slack, stone cold expression His eyes closed to hide the lack of life they present He cannot see the horrors of the embalming He cannot feel when they change his clothes He cannot sense the sorrow of the ones who mourn And when it’s finally over, he cannot feel the heat of a thousand suns reducing him Reducing him to nothing but ashes, to be kept away and as something precious as diamond Yet worth overall, less than dirt His post mortem will always end his humanity