Wreathed Flowers

Sterilized trauma of grief, Gathering in the core crust, Layering to thickness that was about to explode, The hands went limp, The legs were shaken not ready to take step, Grits and guts wrenched and stringed, The abdominal muscles turned taut, The pelvis froze as if struck in tar, Cold perspiration rolled down the temple, Oozing out of central pate, The sting of body water cold, Retold the inner tale quite open and bold, System was down and out and going nowhere, Blood had lost move and heat, And was recurrently getting about this feat, The emotions were many but feeling was one, Refined, focused and stabbing deep, Sterilized to core it pervaded it all, The grief had turned to trauma, And he was not participating, It was a one act drama, What had happened he knew not, Nor could he move the mind to know, He was in a drift less tow, It was as if he was awaiting the death, Waiting for them to come with fragrant wreaths, His mind smiled though he could not, In one corner of his brain a light flickered and he thought, Now he knows none and hears none, He cannot even see none, But after death, He probably would smell one, Lying still he would be free as others get busy in disposing him off, They would not even know how he relished the sweet smell, Of wreathed flowers laid on him by known pell-mell.