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Autopsy.

Updated on December 27, 2009

 

 

Autopsy.

 

 

There is one final
Y in our lives,
it is the incision
from each shoulder blade
that meets over the sternum
and then down to the naval.

The ribs that caged
our soul, now freed,
are split open to reveal
organs that no longer play
the sweet music and
rhythms of our life.

All fluids are drained
leaving a dried husk,
that somewhat resembles
the pod of a human being.
organs are cut and lifted free,
weighed and measured, and then
Checked for any terminal,
suicidal or homicidal
destruction by another.

Then they are unceremoniusly
dumped back into the cavity
that cradled them for so long....
because so long is at last here.

The scalp is sliced,
and the face pulled away,
like a cheap halloween mask
to allow acsess to the brain
and the matter of
what once mattered.

Buzz saw and bone
spray bits of what was,
and then the brain too
is plucked from its stem,
also wieghed, measured
and redeposited in the
cathedral of your cranium.

Then the brow is
knitted one final time,
the body is closed
with staples or stitches,
and the die-agnosis
is written to proclaim
the exact reasons why you died.

Only the morgue drawer icy cold,
and the chill damp of
a six foot grave await you.
The last warmth your body
knows is the friction
of the buzz saw burning
its way through bone.

Then your corpse is
released to a funeral home,
dressed in fine attire
and laid out for all to view.

It is a necessity
of death to study the Y
and what lies beneath
to benefit all mankind.
It is the ticking
time bomb for those who murder,
It is the refusal of
insurance payments for those
who chose to end
their lives prematurely.

Perhaps we linger
after dying in spirit
to observe,just how
useless our flesh becomes,
as it is dissected
and seperated into meat.

We may also remain
many days after we are remains
Just to see how many
lives we have touched,
when they come to
our funeral to weep.

Or perhaps we are
more like a side of beef,
with no knowledge of
the technical side of death,
temporarily butchered
and then repaired,
only to rot.

It is the one Y that
cuts into our existence
which we will never need
to know the answer too,
as we move on into
the zzzZZZZ's of
eternal sleep.

 

 

©-MFB III

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    • Peggy W profile image

      Peggy Woods 

      8 years ago from Houston, Texas

      This is the most poetic rendition of an autopsy that I have ever read. I agree with the comment above that your play on words was excellent.

    • pbwriterchick profile image

      pbwriterchick 

      8 years ago

      Love the play on words throughout this piece! Especially the Y... brilliant! Great work :)

    • Green Lotus profile image

      Hillary 

      8 years ago from Atlanta, GA

      dear me young man. such talent. I do hope the new year brings you joy.

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