mortician

In hush of halls where shadows creep,

A silent sculptor, secrets keep.

A weaver not of threads, but time,

A mender of life's final rhyme.

The mortician, with hands so cool,

Gently gathers life's spent spool.

With balms and care, a touch so light,

They mend the shell, prepare for flight.

No chisel wields this gentle hand,

But artistry in a different land.

Peace they sculpt on weary brow,

A final rest, a silent vow.

Whispers of stories, lives now past,

In every face, a memory cast.

The mortician, a tender guide,

Across the veil, where spirits hide.

So remember, when life's flame burns low,

A gentle hand will help it go.

With reverence and care untold,

The mortician, ushering to the cold