The Morgue Poem by Darren Harris

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.