Beneath the alabaster sheet I lie,
A vessel void of breath, yet still I cry—
Not through these lips that mortal sleep has sealed,
But through the silent halls where grief’s revealed.

I once was he who trembled at the thought
Of death’s pale chamber where the flesh is brought,
Yet here I rest—the very thing I feared—
While students gather round with faces peered.

They slice with silver blades through skin once warm,
And log each organ, map each fading form—
The heart that beat for love now beats no more,
Lies opened wide, its secrets unsealed evermore.

How strange that I, who sought immortal fame,
Should find eternity without a name—
A numbered specimen, a teaching aid,
While all my grand ambitions turn and fade.

The brain that dreamed of symphonies and art
Now sleeps in jars, dissected, torn apart,
And hands that penned such passionate romance
Are severed now, transfixed in death’s cold trance.

I wanted meaning, purpose, legacy—
Instead I serve the sterile laws of anatomy,
My final act: to educate the young
On death’s mechanics, not the songs I’d sung.

Perhaps there’s poetry in this, though grim:
That I, who feared the reaper’s early call, however slim,
Should give my body freely to the knife,
And teach through death the fragile truth of life.

So let them learn from me what I denied—
That flesh is temporary, and our pride
Dissolves like morning mist at break of day,
While only what we give to others stays.