Tell me, did your throat close up
When fingers wrapped around it like
Marionette strings, spindly and ready
To be pulled and consumed, or did
You get a final chance to scream?
Did your dear friends pick up your call
Or did your neighbours come a-knocking
When you showed up with purple bruises
On the underside of your crooked blank stare
Or your the therapist dismiss it as insomnia?
When the comatose finally began, and your
Rigid flesh contracted as if doused with ice
Water, as you didn’t even take a hot second
To shiver and whimper, dreaded rigor mortis
Taking over, did you try to wake yourself up?
Tell me, were your glassy eyes still open
When they stuffed you in that metal box
And the starving flames licked at your body
God’s merciful wrath your only sanctity, or
Were you lucky enough to blink just one last time?