Let the asystole

Voice the matter at hand

The mind of she who wishes

To broadcast her innermost thoughts

Her suppressed desires

Goals, methods, plans

But fear the shatter

Of the internal porcelain muscle

Which through each contraction and relaxation

Sustains a life whose indecisiveness

Has at one point though to welcome

The flatline with open arms

Before crossing said arms across that same muscle

Or at least where it once was

But in a mahogany bed of her favorite color

Dressed in her sunday’s best for all of eternity

After being on display for the final consolation

Of those she never knew cared

Her soul has already ascended as her physical state

Provides nourishment for the flowers that will one day bloom

The sound of a finger snap

Awakens from her journey to her subconscious

Welcomed back to reality

By a familiar sound

Of scribble on paper

Her muted vocals

Cords stolen by her depression

That will one day be returned…

With progress… with faith… with esteem