Thinking Decomposition
Dark prose within the mind of the dead.
A summer day with no rain, and I have no breath.
Sizzling in a studio cardboard box with no ventilation.
A slab of meat on the fryer, forgotten and overcooked.
Is this all life is? Run, live, die, get crispy, and blink out of existence?
Don’t you see, I didn’t want to live, the death part was fine.
But what is this afterlife?
That is my new plain of existence!
No white chariot with doves flying beside me,
This is bleak.
It’s dark and foreboding.
Droplets of sweat etch my translucent brow, I can’t wipe it away.
I’m not solid.
The air is thick, like swallowing a pancake in one gulp.
How can this be the life after death for which I yearned?
It wasn’t like the good book said.
Not peaceful, not paradise.
Hell, at this point give me the devils with horns and a pitchfork.
Maybe a serpent-like tongue reaching seductively for my earlobe.
I’m not picky!
