I am made of mountains
which do not merit their trek,
slumps pregnant with swamps
bubbling ‘round souring slop,
flatlands so parched they cough
as the pustules burst.

I am petals so withered
they perpetually sulk,
shunning the warmth
so to sigh in the soil.

I am blackened fruits
weighing down weary trees.  

The flies do not flock to me.