Her

The cockroach scampers

over a half-eaten

apple

on the altar.

The sick-sweet stench

of rot

hangs thick,

like a noxious

mist.

 

The air is littered

with dying things.

The wind shrieks

and there is a whirring

in my ears.

I can not keep

my balance.

 

Everything

breaks down

around me;

a rolling process

separating

what is

into less and less

substantial

forms.

 

I can taste the stale

mold,

dusty and choking,

its spores

filling my lungs.

 

I greet

Her–

the reality behind

life’s illusion;

its nourishment,

its origins,

as well as its

endings.

5-3-18

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