horror, Poetry

Rancid and candid even in death,

 

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:
 disastrous desire!

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
horribly clapping.

 

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