Red as the dawn
blood hangs from the young man's corpse,
and drips
like water droplets from icicles.
Crisp as the mildewed air
the smell carries a tang
that becomes the atmosphere.
His neck
stretches like crinkled leather,
rips beginning to form
as the noose struggles
to dangle the weight of him.
His life was ordinary,
with little focus.
But in death, there are far more details
to be descried from his rot.
Maggots pool in his eye sockets,
squirming and fighting for eats,
like nibble fish squirming
to get their meal
of dead skin on a spa day.
His mouth hangs open,
blackened and destroyed
by nature's devices.
His feet have turned blue;
nails cracked,
as though he struggled
with all his might
against the promise of the rope.
A rag doll he has become,
while the tree he hangs from
is strong, sturdy, and reaches to touch the sky.
And he dangles just inches,
struggling to reach the ground.
Soon to fall into a crumpled heap
among the dirt, and fallen leaves
with a splat, no doubt,
like the heavy drops of rain
that splash the mud puddles.
Grime and decay
stick to each and every part
clinging to his dry and wrinkled skin,
like rust on door hinges.
His limbs
look long and unnatural
as the deteriorating layers
of flesh wrap tightly around his bones,
as a babe swaddled in cloth.
An animal would not eat him
as it may contract illness.
But is it not already sick
that we would sooner
watch him fade away so gruesomely,
Allow nature to run its course openly,
publicly
than to lower him down
And build him a grave?
We would sooner see him and *****,
than to ***** ourselves
by coming too close
to his ghastly secretion.