Digital Ghosts in a Bone Cage
They laid him out on the steel slab,
the fluorescents buzzing like static hymns.
The bones, thin and tired of holding,
spoke nothing, just rattled faint rebellion,
their song, a hollow percussion.
The scalpel whispered across his skin,
revealing meat, sinew, the red labor
of existence. Somewhere inside, a soul
was rumored to linger, stubborn and silent,
buried under twenty years of bad decisions.
They stripped his brain next,
a gray hive thick with drowned memories.
It twitched even as they lifted it free,
spitting sparks like a dying streetlamp.
The room reeked of copper and inevitability.
A machine chirped, awaiting its call.
They slotted wires where neurons faltered,
replaced guilt with circuits, doubt with code,
and the machine didn’t flinch.
It wore his stolen truths like an old cloak.
God watched, somewhere above or below,
fingers trembling on eternity’s pulse.
There was no wrath left, only pity,
as if clay could complain when molded wrong.
Free will tasted like gasoline and ash.
But that soulless hulk still breathed,
its chest a cage with nothing inside,
flesh slicked down to pixel and spark.
Another body, damn near human,
more ghost than grace, humming cold.
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