A piece of meat

Lying in the scorching heat

Flopped over a rock

Left for anyone

who will have it.



Tender and Raw,

It faintly beats

With the fresh

Remnant memory of life it had

a moment ago.



Too exposed, too sore

To be touched

Too claustrophobic

to be covered.



Will it cook?

A morcel

A day

Slow

but sure.



Each morcel

Burning

Over

And over

Before the next,

So vivid

for just a piece of meat.



A red that holds the bygone lustre of

Its system of reds

At first, it pulsated with life

and now, it throbs with death.



Left to scorch,

yet pining for it