It’s cold; it’s really cold,
I can see my breath in front of me,
The room is dim, really dim,
Where the hell can I be?
It smells, it really smells,
A kind of disinfectant smell,
Its clean, it’s really clean,
Where am I, This can’t be hell,
Tables shiny, really shiny,
And also a wall of shiny doors,
Someone’s cleaned, really cleaned,
The table, the walls and the floors,
One of the shiny doors is open,
I can see the top of someone’s head,
Why are they there? Are they sleeping?
But there’s no movement, are they dead?
As I walk across to where there laying,
I feel a shiver down my spine,
That body laid there in the morgue,
That body in the morgue laid there is mine.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
i never would have guess the ending..good poem darren