Brake Pedal

the turnstile to the mortuary

never stops ticking, 

the embalmer never stops 

colouring the lips

of all the female 

corpses rouge,

it’s a trade secret

a subterfuge 

to portray the dead

as sleeping in peace

the deceased, 

troubled souls

that took their 

spiritual seatbelts off 

the split second 

fate stamped down

on their pulmonary artery

as if it was a brake pedal

killing them instantly

as they collided 

with the windscreen

of their own mortality