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Rated: 13+ · Poetry · Contest Entry · #2206164
An attempt at a horror poem.

Horror’s not my thing, yet I wake to hang suspended,
ghostly observer afloat inches from the ceiling,
a dream of being dissected on postmortem table,
inspected head to foot, minor wounds considered,
great gory gashes measured, categorised, examined,
noted on the chart. Sampled dirt beneath the nails,
between the toes and other spaces random,
detail piled on trivia, scrapings bagged and labelled,
laboratory bound. Then the shaving
here and there - no, please not the brain,
it’s not the pain, just the thought of metal teeth on bone,
the skull trepanned. I’ll close my eyes or maybe not;
I do not care as once I did. Now the scalpel,
slicing bloody lines on defenceless skin,
down from the throat, along the sternum,
across to the sides, a guide for saw to follow.
I cringe with earthly feeling remembered
as the shrieking blade bites through the bone
and heedless hands pull apart the ribs,
for access to the slipp’ry organs at their rest,
dragged in mute protest from tasks forsaken,
dropped without attention in kidney bowls
and steel trays. So it proceeds, the disembowelling,
till empty and devoid of meaning, the rift
is sewn, with rough and careless stitch, together
again, foul mockery of life in death and still
reminder of my pointless being. I turn away
and leave the room, through thought or movement
I know not. My interest fades as vision grows dim,
my last involvement sparked by clang
of bullet dropped in steel container.

Line Count: 31
Free Verse

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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/2206164