Autopsy

This morning, body still unbroken,
She arrived, inquired unspoken,
Why am I now a lifeless token?

To this end we did begin.
First, to pull back the skin,
Revealing the glance within.

Organ, fat, blood, and bile,
Lay as puzzle, tile by tile,
Waiting within, all the while.

Arteries hardened during life,
Speak of internal strife.
Truths divined with a knife.

But the fight twixt vessel and heart,
Is no answer, merely a part.
Atheroma, a truth, a start.

Next, upstream, to the source,
Through which, all blood must course;
Perhaps failure and loss of force?

A clinicians thought does dwell.
Blood enzymes, Doc's alarm bell,
When high, a danger do tell.

The lab report shows elevation,
So search we for correlation,
In the walls of this hearty station.

There, weak, useless, and pale,
Rests heart tissue, proof of fail.
Infarction tells a vicious tale.

Though one answer is revealed,
Another may yet be veiled.
Truths, a myriad in this field.

Under omentum, something hidden.
Deeper, away from eyes unbidden,
Lies the clue, the key, the incision.

First through blood, woefully misplaced,
And of such quantity that it defaced,
Her abdomen, wherein, twas incased,

The iliac as fount sanguinary.
That vessel meant to carry,
A catheter, unsatisfactory.

Here, we have struck difficulty,
Was it the heart that was faulty,
Or blood loss, as causality.

Even in death, it would seem,
Truth is not clear, but rather cream,
Nigh impossible to determine.