The dance of death

The zillion atom body that we boast
is mostly the space that we host        

When the spirit bids us adieu
our skin will turn into blue

With all the options firmly closed
we will be trashed unopposed

Our body will surely decompose
in a sequence that nobody knows

We will slowly turn into food
finally to do 'somebody good'

All those people dear and near
will only see a cell smear

Let's collect our time residue
and enjoy before it's overdue

For nobody has a clue
that to keep soul within
body uses what kind of glue?