upon stainless steel surfaces.
A shell of hollow remains lay
stripped of all human dignity.
Waiting patiently for the Masters hands.
Fingers work in precise efficiency.
Silver scalpels of steel, a cut here, one there.
Pink fluidity infuses the dead with life as
the soul flows steadily down death's drain.
The pungent smell hangs oppressive.
Morbid features richly altered.
Limbs bent in poised pliancy.
Handled with detached respect,
the Master creates with haunting beauty.
Painting a portrait of death into life.
In-animate in mock slumber they lie,
within surrounding folds of exquisite silk
Hollow sentiments fall on deaf ears,
for the hands of death are never idle.
In the shadows stand, the Master in black.
Blacker…blackest…in the shadows stands,
the sculptor of the dead.
Honorable mention
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