Death

Decomposing underground with maggots for company,
The silent sound of rotting flesh,
The blackness that is forever,
This is what awaits,
You and me,
A bone or two crumble,
Like the crust of an apple tart,
Into a sticky what once was,
The insects leave, their job well done,
White bone in a damp, black, crumbling box,
Now part of what was, and part of what will be.





Poetry by Mick Bean
Read 42 times
Written on 2021-10-02 at 07:42

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MetaPoetics The PoetBay support member heart!
Grotesque . . . but a truth well-expressed!
2021-10-04


one trick pony The PoetBay support member heart!
True, and well expressed. I see death as a release from these earthly woes, the physical degradation (to me) is trivial.

Your poem, though, is frank and inarguable.
2021-10-02