My head's out back on the stone
tiles, rotting in the rain. My body's
upstairs resting under sheets
and my jaw has come loose; I've no
tongue left for speech and these
fleshless gums won't hold any teeth.

There's no brain to think with, all
that goopy grey was the first to go.
There are no eyes, no eyesight
no visions no hind nor foresight.

There's just my skull in a bucket
and my spiralling horns set on
a dull, discarded, pewter pedestal.

There's me and the rats and squirrels,
the sparrows that flock to rice
and the random bunny that nibbles
and hides under the bikes
and the blood sucker larvae pulsing
in this stagnant water.

The trees will shed, the snow will fall,
the buds will sprout and still, come spring,
I'll be here rotting in the rain.



© Walyullah