Postmortem Fetal Extrusion

A poor body,  
Lying was her hobby,  
Told one lie too many,  
It t'would not be without a fee.  
Free  
As a cadaver,  
Now a lie, the gravity of, unbeknownst to her.  
A silence that seemed to scream.  
It was not a dream,  
A cacophony of silence,  
A nonverbal parlance,  
Post mortem,  
Sweet nihilism...  
When they found the maggot-filled mass, extruded,  
Counterfeit,  
Not really belonging,  
Therefore not allowed to continue developing,  
An exodus of blood,  
From around the gut,  
Two cadavers,  
From great adventures,  
Such a fun game of hide-and-seek,  
And now they do reek  
Of defeat,  
Which if anyone else challenges me, will only repeat.  
In a state of disrepair,  
Of despair,  
Family members  
Caught in the burning embers  
Of a burning pain,  
Mothers, sisters, grandmothers,  
Fathers, brothers, grandfathers,  
Aunts and uncles, cousins galore,  
Forced to listen to the gore,  
With a hole in their hearts  
That surely smarts,  
And tears them apart,  
Being apart  
From that soon-to-be mother  
Who was killed by another,  
Who won the game,  
And anonymously attained all the fame.