Rancid and candid even in death,
fate pushed me in the righteous path–
impatient to steal my breath.
the rush of wings
clouded my mind as I trained
my receptors front and center:
a faint whistle tickles my neck,
as the fatal quake of rigor mortis,
rips away sensibility and dignity.
A cold, cool cadaver
once flush with gooey liquids,
drips in the hot rain;
the flesh rotting with each droplet.
I could have sworn I heard
his last laugh; hollow bones