State of Decay

The softest trickle of water washing between
the dirt embedded in your fingers, the cracked,
yellowing nails cut off in their prime; the wrinkling
of your disease ridden skin, the final nail.

Lice crawl through the dry strands of your hair;
the plague of incessant vermin that gorge
themselves on the fruits of your suffering;
decomposition sinks its teeth, taking hold.

Your cold grey eyes wide and staring;
glinting in the darkness and lit only
by the tiniest gleam of the moon, piercing
through a pinprick hole; none can see.

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