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Andrew Nov 2018
It’s eating prey
Time of day
Enter fray
Rent or stay
Gents who play
Bent the game
Their dented brain
Centered pain
And mentored shame
As inventors of rain

A mad goon
Raccoon
Attack looms
I’ll crack too
From flak flumes
Under black moons
That lack hues
To track clues
So I stack blues
To attract feuds
With a knack to lose
Looking back to you
I see a path to choose
With a wrathful queue
Remembering old news
Stomping a bold shoe
The way the cold do
Using a honed broom
To get me to fold soon
And grab the gold spoon
From your sold room
That holds doom

A habit teacher
Rabid creature’s
Static bleeder
Rapid feature
Fed me ether
Yet no relief for
My silent grief core
That starts to seethe more
After I have seen the door
To your seasoned store
Closed for sure

A saline
Daydream
Grays beams
Of light streams
So my plight seems
Like a night scene
But my fright means
That my sight’s been
Judged rightly

I’m decomposing
Juxtaposing
My lust with posing
For the trust I’m hosing
Of dust deposing
Varmint nosing

Lost and found
In the ground
Safe and sound
Except for hounds
Who’s sharpened crowns
Lie in darkened frowns
As they roam the town
That exists underground
They belong in the pound
So I can peacefully drown
Mouse Nov 2018
I don’t focus much on death itself anymore,
but what comes after.

Whatever comes will be, and that is that.
I cannot change it, and there’s no sense in agonizing over it.
I like to imagine my body after the event, when I am no
longer conscious, and the breath in my lungs have long
dissipated like last season’s floral.

Even though the chances are slim, I like to imagine being in the forest, surrounded by trees and flowers and perhaps a stream. I imagine a sort of time-lapse, my body collapsing inward, my skin peeling away, my hair wilting like autumn leaves.

Mushrooms will grow beneath my fingers, wildflowers will tangle themselves within my hair and ribcage, blooms and blossoms of all colors will emerge through my chest. My bones will grow moss and Mother Earth will swallow me whole. Tree roots will wrap around me, engulfing me, pulling me towards themselves. I will be wanted, I will belong.

Let me nurture you like you’ve done with me, let me help you grow and flourish into who you are to become, let me be your trellis, your shield, your hill. I will allow you to bloom such as you have me, and we will flourish together, life within death. It goes on, and it is peaceful.

Where there is death or change,
new growth awaits.
LPpoetry Apr 2018
Rotting skin,
Rotting flesh,
Rotting eyes,
Scent of death,
Rotting face,
Rotting bones,
Unknown corpse,
Blank tombstone,
Time forgets,
Life moves on,
Forgetting those,
Who are now gone.
I stretch my fingers as far as I can,
To try and rip them from my hand,
My blackened skin crumbling off before me,
So it would not tear but simply decomposing,
I'm use to the feeling of this husk growing lean,
As I watch it turn red, to sage, to aubergine,

Disjoined ill finish my inspection
In a few days i wont have any recollection,
Just another day to live in private infamy,
Of divining my death which one day will take me,
Though hopefully ill use up my fear 'fore that hour,
Terror today, for peaceful final encounters.

— The End —