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Decay takes familiar forms,
eats a way through faces we once carried,
corrodes bodies we tormented,
alters limbs that gave way before us.
Youth is replaced by a red rust.
Decompose. The air wastes flesh.
Expire. Death is near at hand.
Crumble into a heap of
organs. Lie there for decades.
Molder. The smell you leave is rancid.
Putrefy. No one can recognize you now. Let
oxygen, taking you to a simpler time, go
stale as it engages,
erodes your rotting flesh.
Fester for a while—perish at the thought
everyone alive will outlive you.
Somewhere there are people baking,
transforming ingredients, combining
eggs, flour, and assorted fruit into flaky pastries.
Rot is the furthest thing from their minds.
Eggs,
flour, and assorted fruit
by David Clink
from: Shapeshifter,
©2004
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