Body
A flesh is heavy
As warm blood rushes
Within the minimum vessels
Thus, this flesh is a vase
A container
Of something that is unseen
Something that disproves
The matter of shape
And physical being
This spirit
A glow of a dim light
The spark of a billion neurons
The cell that gave life
This reeks into each corners
Devouring and swallowing my skin
An endless supply of electricity
An identity
Enters my flesh
Creates my body
And I shall live with it
Til this vessel
Returns to ashes
My bones may break
My heart may stop
My body might be a carcass
This flesh might die
And stop for the rest of the time
But my soul lives
Even in the end of the universe
My identity will persevere
Forever, Immortal.
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The Passionate Corpse
PoetryCorpses are gross, dirty and foul-smelling. At times, they're scary to look at. But curiousity enthralls upon something unpleasant. Amidst the ugliness, it satisfies the dark part of our soul-not meant to be human. Something about it is unnatural...
