They cried 
after his heart stopped beating.
He cried every night prior
thinking of the same sadistic machine. 
They read of his life from pieces of wrinkled loose-leaf 
giving falsified merit to each breath 
he unwillingly took. 
They cried, 
what a tragedy.
But a thumping in his chest 
didn’t mean good,
didn’t mean healthy, 
didn’t even mean okay
Sometimes, death isn’t 
the tragedy.