The scent of leaves becoming trees is long-
er than all my bloated years blown over –
pallor guts spilling into the peopleless cityscapes,
where any green is considered overgrown –
the mowers keep embalming
when we’re gone.
er than all my bloated years blown over –
pallor guts spilling into the peopleless cityscapes,
where any green is considered overgrown –
the mowers keep embalming
when we’re gone.
This burst is what decay sounds like –
the mushy expulsion of dread
plated for an acoustic microscope
in order to examine the almost-ghost.
Yet nothing,
not even the faintest howl
or ethereal fragrance
of my fleshly person –
can be found when zooming in.
Those moldering artifacts
are reserved for the saprotrophs –
the ones devoured by larger bodies –
made borderless in their dispersal.
The final digestion seems deathly quiet.
Sound off, spectators! You’ve studied,
but will you rot with me?
We don’t need books, coffins or ice-boxes
to hold our forms together –
The funereal horn has never stopped
blowing –
Wind traces a new field of white lilies –
This place is completely teeming
with the future –
Moss, mushrooms,
and the many other things
That will feast on us
until we disappear –