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Metronome.

Metronome.

Metronome.

When I press upon your chest, Do you feel it in your soul?

No breath, no life, your family’s been told. But they don’t want the guilt that comes from saying stop.

So I follow the metronome.

Metronome.

Metronome.

Metronome.

Bones break beneath my hands. It’s normal, I know. But the feeling seeps into my brain, not likely to let go.

Only strangers in your room, while you lay in still repose. But their harried actions won’t matter.

Metronome.

Metronome.

Metronome.

You’ve already gone.

Flat lined.

And still I follow the metronome.