Poetry for the weak of heart

Another self

There he was, decaying gradually. The small pieces of self was slowly rotting away, leaving behind nothing but a pile of bones.

His individuality was gone. Everything that defined him as a person had all sunken deep into the ground.

But as his body crumbled and his sense of self turned to dust, life began to grow. His bones tangled with ivy, his heart covered in moss. His lungs filled with brambles, the thorns ripping his flesh apart at an agonising pace.

His misery turned green, and so he became life itself. People viewed him as yet another work of art, no longer as an individual. There he should lay, amongst the rest of the artworks.

Day in, day out. Each day, a new body would join them. All were distressed, just like he had been. Like everyone before him had been. But eventually, they'd all found peace with being for others to behold.

They existed, only so that society could tell each other not to end up like them. And yet there were still hundreds, thousands of artworks, all spread throughout the woods. He had become merely another victim.