Your amber eyes stare
into mine
and fade -old clothes in mud- into an
endless sleep.
Slowly, your beating heart dulls out. Almost silent
except the monitor
picks up the whispers.

The floors are carpeted
not by workers but
by you. Your coat,
everywhere.
Nothing but warm, soft flesh shows
Soon gone

A scalpel drags -for hours- through your abdomen
mutilating the soft texture
But no blood replenishes, none at all

Pink tubes squirm out
Not unlike a worm.
The scalpel comes
back for more, tearing at the tube
assisted by a band.
The band is pulled tight
Squeezing the worm -in shape of a V with little white dots on the end- and the
Cold blade finishes the job
Putting the worm
out of it’s misery.

Blue fingers -a tailor- reaches
in with some thread
And stitches inside your empty hole, not filled.
More worms come out
but are placed in again.
In, out, in, out the tailor moves swift over
The scalpel’s first attack.
The pink flesh now joined together.

Your heart races,
Amber eyes flutter
like a butterfly’s wings
And the monitor beats once more.
But you’re exhausted, lethargic.

I hold your paw, and you doze off again.