Who are we?

Here she lies - this complex machine
palely greying, undignified flesh;
eyes now always closed off from you;
A coma, this failure to express.

Her lips in quiet, dry repose;
the blood in her heart beats loveless.
The passing whimsy of her tongue -
A coma’s failure to express.

Like this she is just a vessel,
painted colours between sheet’s press
But her self, her being, sadly hidden
Her coma’s failure to express.

We love the people we see through
the core, not the outside’s dress,
we grieve the silent retraction
the coma’s failure to express.

So speak of the love in your breast
not how her appearance might impress
Hug the core's beauty, memory imprinted
in case of coma, such taciturn distress.

I wrote this in April after listening to a podcast. I finished the last stanza tonight. I don’t know what you’ll make of it. It’s another case of… can’t think of anything to write so dig through the drafted archives. Does it speak of much? I know I felt very strongly about what I was trying to say at the time. I don’t know if the attempt to rhyme adds or detracts.