Curious. How we view ourselves, while on the slab we lie
Knowing forever shut, earthly windows, our eyes
Modesty behind us now, embarrassment we don't feel
Our flesh, we don't cringe away, from the frigid stainless steel
To look with no emotion, incisions, from the autopsy knife
Every muscle utterly still, relaxed as never in life
No blood to rush a blush, our cheeks a pallid waxy grey
Lividity of our skin, shows how in death we'd lain
Enevitably we will be reduced to a dusty grime
Either by an uncaring fire, or the mercy of time