#decomposing - Hello Poetry

bakes the day corpse human naked to nature brewing humid importance sleaving off psychological impotence busy with library returns

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Jun 6, 2025

Jun 6, 2025 at 5:19 PM UTC

neth-jones

1000 1011

bakes the day corpse human naked to nature brewing humid importance sleaving off psychological impotence busy with library returns

6

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

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Nov 9, 2018

Nov 9, 2018 at 3:11 PM UTC

andrew-rueter

Decomposing

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

68

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.

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Nov 4, 2018

Nov 4, 2018 at 4:34 PM UTC

Souris

New Growth

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.

12

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.

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Apr 14, 2018

Apr 14, 2018 at 1:58 AM UTC

l-ppoetry

Rotting

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.

12