Here, in the chilly air of the morgue
where the sharp smell of formaldehyde cuts through the odour of blood
and the buzz of an overworked air conditioner drowns out the howls from without,
they are finally equal.
On cold concrete slabs they lie
men of similar age who prayed to
dissimilar Gods in life,
lie equal in death.
Shot, stabbed, bludgeoned, it doesn’t matter now
Sliced and sewn up after death
they lie in perfect harmony,
unseeing eyes behind lifeless lids stare
at the futility of it all,
amidst the wails of the living.
Which God won, I don’t know
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