The White Room

Bloodied bones
the act of dissecting
holy vessels of life
a pathetic way of
understanding death.

The rusty scalpels and cutting boards
glistening, still wet from a 
mind numbing act,
really,
you can never take away 
the fear.

Crooked pins and glass,
copper wires sewn into 
cold ligaments
and drowned rabbits in stained jars,
ugly and scarred from navel to nose,
screaming a silent plea for salvation.

Eyeless skulls glare at you
and grin their chilling smile,
as if knowing that 
your head too,
will join them some day
on the dusty shelves of doom.

19/6/00 -- 11:20am

Written after I walked into the storage room in the school biology lab.