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Postmortem
by Timothy WilsonThe putrid
Musty smells of a rancid shell
A body that refuses the soul
I saw myself
On the cold table
A “V” across my chest like the bitter Christmas sweaters from grandma
I wasn’t itching
I felt nothing
Looking towards a light brighter than below
I closed my eyes in a sick smile
I knew there was no hell
05/28/2009 Posted on 05/29/2009
Copyright © 2025 Timothy Wilson
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Kris Mara on 05/29/09 at 01:32 PM ...chilling...this is eerie, more so for the tone you write it with...the last line completes and compliments the lines above it very well... |
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