Death and Mold

A poem of a man... read and see.

Death and Mold
Featured in the March 19th Horror/Scary Newsletter

         Death's fingers scrape my back,
All I do is sneeze and hack.
I can feel my soul's heart cry out,
My body has gone a different route.
I know not where I go right now,
I've lived my life not knowing how.
The freezing air bites at my thighs,
I can only warm myself with lies.
"I am not dead," I still deny,
"I will not be dead until I die."
Just then a beetle ran down my cheek,
Finally I noticed that I truly reek.
I noted all of my rancid flesh and mold,
It is time I was buried beneath the threshold.

Death and Mold
        - James Cannon