my thoughts are beginning to rot.
mold and moss hang over them
In flesh,
my eyes reach out
towards an overgrown field
of stale, yellow grass.
I catch a black widow
on the edge of my conscience
as the warmth from the sun
creeps over my shoulder blade.
Until the sun comes
into full view It seems
I will remain cold, still,
collecting spiderwebs
across my bones.
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