by Brenna Pierson
In life within suspended death,
I have no freedom, nor have I rest
in a body trapped by life,
which ended, stilled, and now’s forced into strife.
The strife tormenting me, the soul,
is that of which o’er technology’s hold
automates my body, though laid to rest,
as if my heart lives yet inside my chest.
My body is frozen, chilled as ice,
as it lies vaulted for such a high price.
For money has bought the one thing God forgot:
that man, in his fight to stay ever-alive,
would consume his soul’s destiny with dollars and dimes.
Yes, dollars and dimes paid for a vault
made it possible for me to loom here and rot,
as my body sits stale as the air and just waits
for some miracle cure to change its dead fate.
Yet, what man doesn’t know is that cure will not come.
And my body will live, vaulted, away from all sun,
as I, the poor soul, simply sits and decays,
for I cannot break free with my body at bay.
I will drift, unseen, like a vanished, pure heart,
left to weep as I watch over soul who depart
for the Eden we’re meant for and that I would see
if ever true death came to let me be freed.
But I wont, though my body can never more bleed.
Must I stay on the side, on this earth and not leave?
My eyes will not stare, my ears will not hear,
yet I’m doomed by my body, to always be near.
I, the old soul, must stay locked, as with chain,
to my body, until I’m set free from my pain,
for death has now lost his eternal grim game,
where dead bodies can stand forever, yet lamed.
Man has won, taken over, with ice and machines.
“Cryogenics,” he calls it, and though it may seem
a triumph for life over death has thus come,
the game has just started, has merely begun.
Man plays the fool in a game with no winner.
The soul only loses, and stuck like a sinner,
an innocent spirit is trapped in the dark
of a body with no feeling, or thought, or a heart.
Cheating death, man cheats only himself and God’s love.
Man is robbed of the love he would feel when above
if he let his life go so his soul could move on—
but let go he does not, and the soul can’t move on.
But all this lamenting is only in vain.
All I have now’s a vault filled with body and name.
It is done. I am trapped to cry in the dark,
and never shall I know of the heavens above.
For no miracle cure will bring back my body—
no such thing exists on man’s advanced earth.
I wait for nothing and live for nothing,
never to see light, never to move on,
not even to show like a ghost in the sun.
The sunken Jouie de Vivre, an exquisite ocean liner, had succumbed to a watery grave years ago. Thomas, a veteran marine biologist, had links to the wreckage that none of his fellow crewmembers—and Thomas himself—would have never imagined.
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