Friday, November 8

The Corpse's Composition

A corpse composes its decomposition,
Caressing the lusts that were its competition.
Awareness—it goes, but yearnings keep living,
The binds that confined them at last more forgiving.
Hungers don’t die; no, they burn after rot
Has consumed all the parts temporality forgot,
And a fantasy never fulfilled pulsates on,
A pumping gut now that the real thing is gone.
In darkest holes where the white worm holds its feast,
A million bone puppets are posthumous priests.
Locked into their coffins of sumptuous decay,
Mandibles chatter of what held them prey.
Though cognizance vanished, and souls found their cure,
Passions turned animate stir and endure.
Ten, twenty, two hundred, a thousand writhe deep
In the catacombs where all the true secrets keep.

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