Red as the dawn blood hangs from the young man's corpse, and drips like water droplets from icicles.
Crisp as the mildewed air the smell carries a tang that becomes the atmosphere.
His neck stretches like crinkled leather, rips beginning to form as the noose struggles to dangle the weight of him.
His life was ordinary, with little focus. But in death, there are far more details to be descried from his rot.
Maggots pool in his eye sockets, squirming and fighting for eats, like nibble fish squirming to get their meal of dead skin on a spa day.
His mouth hangs open, blackened and destroyed by nature's devices.
His feet have turned blue; nails cracked, as though he struggled with all his might against the promise of the rope.
A rag doll he has become, while the tree he hangs from is strong, sturdy, and reaches to touch the sky. And he dangles just inches, struggling to reach the ground.
Soon to fall into a crumpled heap among the dirt, and fallen leaves with a splat, no doubt, like the heavy drops of rain that splash the mud puddles.
Grime and decay stick to each and every part clinging to his dry and wrinkled skin, like rust on door hinges.
His limbs look long and unnatural as the deteriorating layers of flesh wrap tightly around his bones, as a babe swaddled in cloth.
An animal would not eat him as it may contract illness.
But is it not already sick that we would sooner watch him fade away so gruesomely, Allow nature to run its course openly, publicly than to lower him down And build him a grave?
We would sooner see him and *****, than to ***** ourselves by coming too close to his ghastly secretion.