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Post Mortem
The room is cold,
resting on unmoving hands– hands that once held someone.
The sheet is folded back
without ceremony– No prayers, No final words.
Just a body– paused forever.
I thought I would feel something:
fear, pity, horror.
But the dead do not disturb me
as much as the living do.
Only the sound of metal meeting bone.
The skull resists– then yields to the strike.
A hollow crack. A sound that will replay long after the room is left behind.
I waited for nausea,
for tears, for the weight of it all.
But what comes instead is emptiness.
just a quiet detachment–
as if witnessing truth
strips emotion down,
Because under the same light,
one day,
my hands too will resist.
Someone will pull back the sheet,
without knowing my laugh,
without knowing the warmth,
those hands once held.