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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
Copyright ©
Death Wandering
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