Content Warnings; Body Horror; allusions to rot/decay
Crows are prone to collections.
Heaps of shinies and trinkets
most would call garbage.
they swoop for
cast-aside joys amongst
a sea of nothing.
when the Something is
half-buried in their domain,
a heap of parts, disjointed
through its revision,
the Crows begin their descent.
They land,
One
By
One.
the Something they
pick apart,
it barely protests as the soft beaks
sift through wretched metal, yet
breathes, inspecting the birds.
The cookie-cutter pieces
jingle with each inhale, exhale-- the
Something is inviting?-- the
Crows do not know.
the Something jangles:
"Take my cookie-cutter bells,
so carefully repurposed
from my iron frame--
used, never loved--
take them, joyous crows,
gossiping carrions,
enamoured by the
jingling of my loose parts.
Step right up, one
and all, for my greatest and
final act: the oxidation of my
Me.
my Corpse rusts for you,
are you not Overjoyed?
Why are you crying, sweet birds?"