There is death here.
The ground bleeds
slowly through
shallow holes
letting small flowers grow
faintly smelling
somewhere between
perfume and decay.

No one stirs to
wipe this dark stain away.
Dirt and stone mark the space
pointing to the place
were all journeys end.

Soft becomes rigid.
The earth dries
slower than
rigamortis sets in,

But I hope they feed me
to the fishes and wolves
leaving the rest of me
to the rest under a tall tree.