THE MORTICIAN’S HANDS

In shadows deep, where thoughts flee,

The mortician’s hands lay on me.

To rest, to sleep, no longer sane,

In death’s embrace, I now remain.

A scream within, a silent cry,

As pale as death, as cold as night.

My form he checks, with careful ease,

A ghastly dance, a grim disease.

With bath and song, a mournful tune,

He tends to me beneath the moon.

Two hands of strength, with skill and grace, Set my visage, in death’s embrace.

Arterial flow, a crimson tide, Drains away, where secrets hide.

The hollow core, where souls decay, Is purged and cleansed, in grim array.

The hum of death, a ceaseless sound,

As flames of desire do surround.

With final breath, I shed my skin, To face the void, to face within.

And in that moment, once again,

I ponder choice, in death’s domain.

To linger still, or flee the night,

In death’s passages, eternal flight.

:: 03.08.2024 ::