our true natural state
is death:
life is an anomaly.
we are meant to be
corpses,
yet we flail about in this
glitch
of existence.

like a rock is drawn to its place
on the ground
a certain gravity pulls us
towards death,
towards the end of that
mistaken spark;
all as it should be.

the earth swallows us
gently strips our bones
because we are food,
we’ve always been nothing
but food.

it’s no wonder our
decaying matter causes it
no indigestion:
we belong to the worm,
to the inanimate,
to the world’s gut.

our innards, our marrow knows
that all this frenzy to preserve
our fleeting inertia
is futile;
still we rage, rage against
our place in the family of things.