all the poets
falling from the trees like leaves
gonna cover the ground with our rot
keep it rich fertile
worms come to help
come to eat us
they'll get fat them worms
fat from the wrath of the living
Doll, you may have found a place of rest but I'm still on the trail.
fat belly filled with poet mulch
munching poet putrid mulch
what we don't use
we mulch
generations of poetry
passed down in pure rot
all the words
all decomposing
focused on eternal life