From under the rock

Oozing slime from under the rock,
slugs, snails, and smells of shit,
hidden eyes drifting in shadow,
all belong to death.

A flower drooping over smelling it's own ass.
Cries and screams in the deep of night.
Decayed rotting limbs, rows of bodies laid out.
dirt dug holes filled with lime to cover the stench,
all belong to death.

There's nothing glamorous about the wasting of life.

Blood spattered walls, twisted metal dripping with human remains.
Torture, disembowling, hanging from trees,
bodies pulled apart in four directions by blood- thirsty men.
All belong to death.

Drowning, poison, stangulation,
knives, forks, and picks,
a thousand pricks and stings from venomous creatures,
insects, and snakes.
All belong to death.

I despise the creativity,
yet mine eyes find hard to shut, when witnessing such madness
unfold.

What is it about death that is so fascinating?

Even now as we speak,
people are plotting the death of millions, in the blink of an eye.
And others enraptured by greed, reeking of expensive colognes
unknowing, strangle in their silk ties.
All the while turning a blind eye
to the slow, creeping, poisons injected perpetually
into Mothers sweet body,
her fluids, her breath, her bounty.

Pronoucing a gangrenous pall upon all
that is life.
Until all that
belongs is death.