People who die
Aren't always mottled flesh
Rigor mortis
And full of formaldehyde

The dead are not all in the ground
Fermenting and bloated
Stinking and gaseous
Slipping black skin like greasy banana peels

The departed are not all in Heaven
Rattled skeletons left behind
Long and short bones laid out straight
Plastic eyelids covers long popped aside

They are the ones with dead cold eyes
Empty hearts and clenching hands
Emotions extinguished like matchsticks
Left out in the rain

They are out of tears
They are out of love
They are out of time
They might as well be buried bones.