Rot

Muscles on my body,

turning into skin and bone.

Do I feel heartache?

Heartbreak?

No.

 

All I feel is my entire being

becoming a rotting corpse.

 

Destined for the sleep of death,

the warmth of only myself in my coffin,

buried.

 

'Tis another moment for the walking dead.

 

Rot

This poem is about: 
Me

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