Sunday, 15 October 2017

Autopsy of a loved man, April 13th 2067

"I can sleep" he hissed
and a prayer, too, curled through
his greying hair,
as he slipped down, dodoesque
from his rocking chair, by the writing desk.

Later, under the white light
his frail frame bathes,
skin etched and scathed
by the aging days.

One figure mutters to the other
"He was blinded from a young age"
"By love, I guess?" "Yes,
and upon his cheeks
mirth lies scored
like the rings on the trunk
of a sycamore."

The buzz of the saw
bites into the bark of his chest,
barking as the notches catch
and put his ribs to the test.

A gloved hand pulls out a lung,
then another, dunks them down
upon a silver platter;
loudly they splatter,
though not with blood,
instead with the essence,
the smell, of the woman
the old man had once loved.

As they remove the heart
the corpse lets out a fart,
startling the coroners,
and grinning,
in his rigor mortis mask.

They inspect the heart, intricately marked
by the finest of lines.
Upon further inspection
its crimson complexion
appears engraved on its surface
in cryptic cursive.

the labyrinth of grooves
stamped on the old man's heart
are the fingerprints of the lady
of whom he was once part

Were a needle to move
from groove to groove
the white room would echo
in alegretto, with words of love.

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