Autopsy Poems | Examples

The autopsy of a black body

An autopsy of a black body
One who suffered greatly
The body pushed past its limits
To the point it had enough and quit

A scalpel to their chest
Slowly peeling the layers of flesh
Noticing the rot 
Hit by the stench of trauma

The body dissected 
The organs removed 
Leaving the body an empty shell 
Of a broken person
Beaten by an unjust system
There was no hope for the body to be saved 
It was always going to give away

The person that had owned the body stood no chance
From the trauma to the head 
Consumed by the complexities of PTSD
To the bruises on the legs
From a lifetime full of abuse 
Carrying a body hated by society

It was like a troubled home 
A place that was out of control
Where the quiet screams of abuse
Are trapped within the cracked walls
Bearing the weight of secrets untold

It was damaged beyond repair 
No amount of glue could fix the damage of what was done 
The body could heal 
But the trauma couldn't be undone 
The cause of death: racism
This is what happens when you live a life on the run from discrimination 
Beaten by the harsh reality of hatred 
Isolated by a world full of prejudice 
Living in an abyss of hopelessness

Autopsy of our love

our love was a corpse
left to rot in the gutter
festered wounds seeping rot
the stench of our decay
clings to our skin

i am the undertaker
burying the bones of our love
the memories haunt me
like ghosts in the morgue

silence suffocates
a veil that wraps around
our necks, squeezing tight
the truth of our demise

in this darkness, we find
the art of our pain
a canvas of shattered souls
where love once dwelled

now we're left to drown
in the void of our own making
the weight of our regret
crushing us, bone by bone

and when the darkness claims us
our own hands will be the ones
that bury us

Charles bukowskis Autopsy

they peel back my skin
like old wallpaper,
the stink rising
as the organs, bruised and bloated,
spill out like forgotten secrets.

the saw hums,
cutting through bone like butter,
the ribs cracking open
to a cold, fluorescent light
that never flinches.

the heart, heavy, useless now,
is weighed and tossed aside,
just another lump of meat
in a world that’s always hungry
for the next hollow thing.

looking down on what's left of me,
I turn in dicust 
having to do this sll over again.

Autopsy

You gotta let the blood out the body
You gotta let it all fade away
Once the blood is out the body
Then the body can reawake

You gotta walk the streets at night
Watch the victims shining bright
Waiting for dreams that never come true
Clinging to life nearly through

You gotta let the blood out the body
You gotta let it all fade away
Once the blood is out the body
Then the body can reawake

You gotta watch their eyes
No hiding, no disguise
Vacant pools lacking soul
Destiny’s ashes burning coals

You gotta let the blood out the body
You gotta let it all fade away
Once the blood is out the body
Then the body can reawake

You gotta cut the body wide
Gotta cut it deep inside
See the pictures' life unfold
Death in jars, story told.

Autopsy of a Glass Girl

Staining the floor with her shards
and slicing the hands of the coroner
the broken doll rests in pieces.
Her etched face glances skywards
her beaded eyes trapped staring into the sun.
“Pushed too far,” the coroner says.
Porcelain women weep at the side of the autopsy table.
“Bury the fragments,” the coroner says, the coroner says.
His words move on
but the mourners never will.
He moves on to the next case
but the mourners never will.
He moves on.
But the mourners never will.

The End

If death is considered doubtful then postmortem should be done. 
If death is not doubtful but family is doubtful then for the satisfaction and removal of doubts autopsy should be done. 
If there is any criminal act involved then justice is right of anyone dead or alive.
4.If post mortem is not allowed by family then there are many other tests which could be done Ultrasound, X Ray, Urine, Stool, Saliva, blood, DNA etc...

The Day Her Body Went Mute'

& death swallowed my grandmother when i was twelve.

there are some memories that hunt you while asleep
& some spill goosebumps on the fabric of your skin.

i lost count of the nights i pour tears out my eyes, 
there were days i keep my fingers steady in the family gallery.

i listened to your voice breaking through the cracked walls,
you lit candles & placed them in the middle of your room,
& then drag silence in your chest &
spoke in tongues and scream at God to keep me safe.
 
when my scars developed into a city,
with dimmed lights & wrecked lanes,
you ironed smiles on your lips and still kiss me on the forehead.

how do i tell these stories of how your body spent days wearing off its texture from rotten scars?

the dark rooms here still hold your photograph,
the piano in the parlor eats dust
it must have thought about you & felt bored, too.

By: Aloysius S. Harmon is still struggling to beco
aloysius is a Liberian writer and a poet or sunflower.

Autopsy

This is what happens when blade meets flesh?
When your insides breathe more air than you...
Lately I've lost muse to write, love to praise and words of hope,
Instead my pen is but a riotous menace,
Bringing nothing but sirens and horses,
With no compassion nor sentimence.....
So I've been reciting the nicene Creed every morning,
Hail Mary every evening
And holy Communion on Sundays
I need a fresh start,
An autopsy....
To reveal the cause of this pale heart,
This must be what happens when the blade meets flesh,
But I'm a man of flight,
So I've been crafting odes in my dreams of which I never find time to write,
This is beyond sorcery
What hobby is this? Of which it beeseches my intellects deepest chambers and still sings of free will,
Enslaved by the chains I create with my wrist.

The Amourette Autopsy

The Amourette Autopsy 
 
In vesper’s curt caress there seems no bind 
To daylight’s brim or morning’s dire decree- 
Your vertigo embrace confounded vows, 
Within a steel wheeled cauldron we stirred swamps 
We hyperventilated hurricanes 
Cajoled embraces, arrogated from 
your groom and registry and welling eyes; 
Celestial bliss, we buzzed God's prayer vault. 
 
We even deemed the telescopic murk 
a trough where genuflections might could reach; 
You spun away to opium dens, supine, 
I could not trace Icarian designs. 
You tiptoed the obituary scene 
Without your leaving even a toe’s wake- 
But in your swirl you must have slipped but once 
in its ambitious, enterprising ink. 
 
Oh butterfly why you abjured your wings, 
Regressed to the cocoon womb’s staid address? 
I wish I could interrogate your wraith 
by dream, concussion, disembodiment. 
Enraptured by your sallow soft trained tress- 
drapes gaped to manifest seraphic tones 
of fairness, though distraught by varying hues 
that sapience esteems the bends of life

Fatally Poisoned

Imam Hassan.
Bruce lee.
Eva braun.
Georgi markov.
Theodore romzha.
Valterovich litvinenko.
Mahendra Tripathi.
Yogendra sony.
Steve clayton.
Mary yoder.
Stacy robinson.
Note. It is to be said that harshad mehta was Poisoned in jail.

Love Autopsy

Fomented cycles
address only lonely lips
kiss free denials

The Autopsy

"The Autopsy"
They wheeled his body into the room. 
Covered with a clean white sheet.
The doctors were methodical, 
yet at the same time quite discreet. 
They studied it in sections, one area at a time.
and although their search was thorough, 
there were a few things they could not find.
They couldn't find the memory of the one he loved so dear,
and they couldn't find the passion that he felt when she was near.
They couldn't find his pride, or the bounce within his step.
Though the smile he had when he saw her hasn't left him yet.
And they couldn't find the pleasure that he felt year after year.
And if they searched his entire body they would never find it there.
Yes the body was being studied to try and find a clue.
Why his life had ended early, why his life on earth was through.
The doctors with all their training didn't know where to start.
For they couldn't have known she left him .........
and he died from a broken heart.

>>
               I paint pictures with Words

                   calbambi@gmail.com

Autopsy

The Autopsy 

This is a good day cold but with sunshine
and hard soil which with a mechanical digger 
is easy to open for a newly dead
When a patient dies, he/she is sent down 
to the doctor in the basement who do the autopsy
he speaks into a mike takes pictures writes a report.
The doctor in question is obese, smoke cigarettes
when on his breaks, is straight out of a crime novel
written by Mike Spillane 
This is a good day with sunlight and hard soil but
there will be no funeral today.

Autopsy

I wonder what they'll learn of me
After a thorough autopsy,
Once my thoughts stop mattering,
And decay takes everything.
I wonder what or if they'll regret,
I wonder if they feel guilty yet. 

How much is a human life, 
What's the worth of writhing strife?
Can you put a price tag on them? 
Can you pretend that we're all gems? 

I wonder if my mind will travel, 
Once I'm 6 feet beneath gravel, 
I wonder if my energy,
Will disperse, unravel me.

I wonder if I'm wondering,
Or subconsciously planning
To have myself cease to exist, 
But add my heart to the next list. 

Drop me off inside a human,
That is friends with just a few men, 
Take away all of my fires, 
Let them bathe with my desires.

Autopsy

Autopsy

My words are my scalpel
My incision precise
My organs are splayed
My veins bleed ice

My mind is the blade
My eyes the knife
The light there fades
My treatise to entice

My screams are swallowed 
By the empty abyss 
My Heart is hollowed
My smile betrays bliss 

In utterance I wallow
My pain I kiss
My soul is sallow
My flesh bruised by fist

My whispers like gallows
My mind to dismiss

My soul exposed
Under the tissue unbound
The words are posed
To uncover or confound

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