A Tired Mother named God.

Rotting to Rest

A forgotten piece of food rotting in the back of the throat,

inside a pile of bones, long left vacant of a soul.

As fungus feeds and maggots squirm,

ripping apart the decomposing flesh,

Leaving behind burrowed holes in the skin,

A sign of their territorial presence.

This is no longer a human body, it is Sin City for parasites.

It is a decaying breeding, gambling ground

for the creatures who feed on the dead.

I pray my someday corroding crust of a once working body,

Will dissolve into the earth, allowing new souls to blossom from me.

I pray no one will remember my face,

As the beeltes who never knew me, peel my skin for their nests.

And all that was, and ever could have been, my life,

Is finally at rest.