Grave Yard Diner


It is here that I lay
Dark, dismal, an honorable purpose
A food of the Gods if you will
The smell is dank, musty, deep rooted
I lie here length wise engulfed with satin
Attempting to scream though voiceless
Forcing my closed eyes to open but blind
I pray for motion, nay a twitch but paralyzed
Lying still with arms by my side
Garbed in Sunday’s best
Trapped in a claustrophobic enigma
No light nor sound
Nor even the slightest hint of saliva on my tongue
I lie here for eons it seems
The smell growing grotesquely pungent
Satin drooping, moist and moldy
Exposing a hidden wooden cocoon
It too disintegrating all around this bloated awfulness
I could feel the beasts of the soil, their voracious bites
Insatiable as they digest pulp, cloth, flesh
Food of the Gods, what a farce
Rather a grave yard diner instead

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