I've heard "It's in the eyes"

Like fog laden mirrors reflect only haze, the eyes of the dead can no longer gaze
although they appear to stare into space, the vision of such is damned hard to erase

Awkward to handle until rigor sets in, flopping around like a limp thespian
unaware of the crowd of bystanders there, all craning to see, some deeply in prayer
.

Or even make out a sheet covered form, that no longer breathes, lost to the storm
of uninterrupted, never ending malaise, those lingering, those fatal, long final days
.

There's always that one, you see is a skeptic, can't fathom that shell is no longer septic
I wish we could just remember the good, if only their trek could be more understood
.

I'm sure it's acceptance that is hard to find, I know there are some who feel left behind
but death is not where I want to follow, no matter how hard being alone is to swallow
.

I'll let it suffice, that my pillow be damp, and hide my fears like the greatest champ
move on, anew, forget that sickening glaze, the eyes of the dead that no longer gaze

.