Everything rots, doesn’t it?
Watch with me, dear reader
This petal falls from the rose
Your body starts to decompose

Another petal falls
Maggots burrow into your brain
A Panther tears open your chest
All of your organs are devoured hastily
Not to be put to waste

A third petal is blown by the wind
Your skin starts to peel
revealing marvelously white bone
a small sprout grows up through
the ribs and shows itself to the sun

The fifth and sixth petals fall together
The rain brings forth a flood
washing away the dirt and leaves
only your skeleton left behind

A curious dog takes your femur as
the seventh petal falls
You are rudely moved from
the forest floor to a dark room
They give you a name

The eighth petal falls
They put you in a box
The sun no longer shines on the sprout
and it too wilts
cries of people
surround you as you are then
dropped into your grave

The rose decomposes,
just like you.
The box doesn't last long
And your bones finally
are given a rest
As they crumble into dust

Dear reader, you see,
Everyone rots.

You will read this poem, and as you read it you'll wonder why is that the first line of this, how bizarre and unintriguing.
You will feel the emotions I felt as I put these words into motion.
You won't care.
It'll touch you for a slight second and take you back with a rush of nostalgia.
You will forget this.
My words full of feeling and most likely eloquence will fade your mind like a dying butterfly,
that just flew by,
right before your eyes.
(You weren't aware of the fact it was dying, of course.)
I should say these are all ghost words, with demons attached to them; for the things that inspired these thoughts are impacted
memories
formed by travelling people who attached themselves to little pieces of my mind.
I thought as I wrote this,
my soul is staining the paper,
for it often feels as though it is bleeding and I would say every writer feels this way.
I would hope so.
A sinking boat, over boarded with water.
A flooded river, full of life, not knowing how to deal with all of it's responsibility.
A loud room, around a small human with a sensory overload.
Each word is a brick on top of a flower.
This is as heavy as this silly poem will get.