It always starts with death, the pheromones do
Dance on the whispers of air. It beckons to those
Of appetite to seed this silk husk of decay.

They do dance upon its pungent rigor-mortis,
Cultivating the void that was life. The calling
Of a flowering beckons as petals of white cascade.

And then this poignant collection of events collided,
Bursting forth and what was but decay did feed life.
A collage of fragrances hit upon the air and wept.

These petals of silk did tumble upon the flesh and absorb
The sinews to bone. Once they had danced they, withered
Into corruption. Drifting onyx lifted fleeing to  the wind.