Does it invalidate privacy to be given
A dissection, but posthumously?
To a mind entrapped in a limbo, or heaven
Or heathen hell, or merely sans conscience
Floating among the equanimous buoys of sensation,
Once the sword has struck, the disease has the body embodied
Or a bullet that shatters the glue of existence
That holds up, together, a fragmented mirror of reality.
Blood spilled within the grey coldness of hospitals
Or sprinkled atop mud and stone;
A deathly smell, the smell of death, stagnantly wafts
And tastes like a cold coin, steely sour.
Lacerating meat that lost what set it apart from animal,
The conscious autonomy social structures dub liberty,
Blood shown in blue slowly drains
And organs of the generous have new owners;
Perhaps they too desired a sarcophagus.
A heart that stops chasing a rhythm, a tap on the knee
That no longer raises a kick,
We pervade their desire to not be studied.
When whole and blinking, a bodily inquest
Becomes a matter of choice
But the untimely silence of individual darkness
Robs of liberty and tears away
The illusive wall between creatures.
Calmness, a state, and aggression too,
Being/to be is a state, so is not-being too?
Death— to be in post-existence, post-real, post-postmodern,
Post-humous, almost post-human, in post-mortem:
Reduced to animal, then ash and dust.
The photo is taken from Arnaav Bhavanani’s album: mattabeseck flows