Just Ask A Mortician

They may count me down to 'dead', when they think I'm done. They may put me in a box, to seal my fate. They may comment, time to time...how natural I look, as if the years have done no harm.

They may deduce, my hair keeps growing, from the marrow in my bone, without ever really caring...there's no barber here. But my nails, oh, the nails.Where ever can we hide this 'fact finding'? 'little parings' on the silken floor, "as if, he lays there...'biting'."

 Marginal error, to a science saying..."Isn't ought, but death in death. He didn't bring a book along", and they laugh! "Ha ha ha ha..................ha? Then, they may move me from a dreadful ditch, to coffee can, or pickle jar, or study every bone, on down to sweet phalange, sucking each...in turn.

Intern? Is safe to say, there's life goes on in death, somehow, even in a 'cold room'. Just ask a mortician. Finally, they'll tire, and they'll toss me in the fire, maybe...burning down to ash, that collarbone, on which was etched...'a Druid prophesy'.

Though, prophesy or no, there is a long long way to go, after this body, where I may watch you from the ceiling, or mayhap...the floor, beneath which you hid me, and I may chuckle, time or two...to watch your paltry balls swing too or fro. It's not as if, we cannot laugh. In death, we're free at last...to laugh, forever more!


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2017, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: NDE life after death, google pic