Saturday, January 23, 2016

Autopsy, a poem


Dissect this gurney of words
before they decay; clues
hide in every bone
scraped clean of my flesh.

Who left this body lying
unmarked in the margins?
Another causal victim
without identity,

without meaning, awaits
its moment's attention
before a pauper's grave.
The crime remains unsolved.

Stephen Brooke ©2016

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