The Coroner 

In the dead of night, when the world is still,

And the only sounds are the creaks and chills,

There’s a woman who works alone and grim,

A coroner in the moonlight dim.

Her hair is dark, her eyes are deep,

Her face is pale, she rarely sleeps,

For she’s surrounded by the dead and cold,

And the mysteries they still hold.

With scalpel in hand, she cuts and probes,

In search of answers to the unknown codes,

That lurk within the bodies she’s given,

A task that leaves many a soul driven.

She knows the secrets of the deceased,

Their hidden stories, their lives, their peace,

But she never shares their final words,

Just the evidence she’s found afterwards.

And as the night wears on and on,

And she’s the only one not gone,

She begins to feel a spectral presence,

A haunting memory, a lost essence.

Is it her mind playing tricks,

Or the ghost of someone who still seeks,

The truth that she holds within her hands,

The key to their fate, their final demands.

She shudders as the clock strikes three,

The hour of haunts and dark entities,

But she’ll carry on, for she knows her role,

To give closure to those without a soul.

So when you hear the sirens blare,

Or catch strobes of flashing red flares,

Take these difficult words to heart,

It’s the song of those soon to depart.

Not always the promise of salvation,

But rather a final destination, 

And when the causes are unknown,

The corpse will go on loan.

A final truth for her to discover,

She’ll get closer than any lover,

This woman who toils to derive,

The coroner who keeps the dead’s secrets alive.

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