Anatomy of a Murder

In the quiet room of the morgue the light is dim,
An investigator’s breath held, nor their footfalls hymn.
The body lies—still‑stone of flesh, a silent crime,
A sketch of a murder by the dark edge of a lime.

With scalpel in the hand, the skin unfolds a tale,
The rope of capillaries runs like a pale roadrail.
Under the altar of the blue‑gowned committee’s care,
Each artery, each vein, divulges lurid despair.

The heart, a battered drum, where pulse has turned to still;
Its valves are closed, a lock that no living will.
The lungs, a pair of bleached lungs, preceded by a scream,
In the silence that follows, the violin of the air‑beam.

The skull’s bony vault cracks with a silent roar,
The brain, once bright, fades to a dull, inert shore.
Mortuary tables worn by time and neat precis—
Where blood and ink mix in the plainer of the lens.

Anatomy of a murder, drawn with grim delight,
A map of veins that led from dark to light.
In the hush of the morgue’s reflective stone,
The killer’s heart lies buried beyond the known.