the ribbon tied. the seal pressed, neat. and the astute.
hello, stranger. an eroding corpse among a bed of buds  
coroner's eyes over you. it was due. sour.
worms gather. flies flood in like a plague and the
consequential axe wound cements its innards as the
roots of the trees pull you six feet under.
degrading still. the aftermath and the smell of it.
rot and decay. i extend my hand, reaching out for rose and silk
to pass the time but as i tamper with the flourishing buds
the uneven petals wither collapsing into themselves
and as my feet are greeted by the familiar roots
i too follow.