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De-composition

In the corpse of the evening I state my intent
to spend every hour as it ought to be spent;
from the bones of the morning to fashion my day
then to sleep in night's arms while her flesh rots away.
From the afternoon's skull I will drink my cheap wine,
on the thick meat of midnight I'll hungrily dine.
When I go to seek fire by the dawn's rosy light
her dark blood, cooling fast, will lie plain to my sight,
and should noon's faded ribcage crunch under my feet
I will cling to a thighbone to guard my retreat.
As the dead minutes march past the ghost of my eyes
my sockets (ah, hollow!) will mark their demise:
for the curve of my cheekbones lies pale and wet
and I weep that I die, yet I cannot forget.

Author notes

C a r n i v a l e

Prompt:
3) Out! Out, Damn spot!
--Lady McBeth

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