Sepulcher

She's dead
The blue electricity sizzling
Syncopated notes
Underneath her blouse
As she sheds her last tear.
Why doesn't the preacher tell us?
He passes the buck
Between the mortician
The coroner
The doctor
The therapist
Caught in a system
Of numbers and quotas
A long time ago
She met someone she really liked
He looked straight at her
Piercing
Probing
Returning her gaze
As if she counted
She loved him
And he loved her.
One day all of it faded
Seeing her meant nothing.
To him,  she was like all the others
His favorite subject himself
Her eyes were closed
A silhouette hanging
In the darkness
Her arched brows penetrating
The silence of the morgue
With stern cheekbones
And pierced lips
A terrible whisper stifled while
The emptiness fingered the cold walls
Like granite, imploring her to let go
Of the throbbing voice that brought
Her here within the tomb.