whiff of rot

he smiles
with teeth
like crooked headstones
swaying
behind her(she is staring at the ground unseeing)
the whiff of rot
swirls in the wind
attracting gnats
in a cloud of buzzing
theatrics(she is in bed still unable to make herself rise)

in a fit
of unjust clarity
of self
clarification calculating
infinite lies(the dead all float in the breeze with hungry eyes)
she feels
the cold touch
of the grave
a shudder running
through her(every spectre of innocent malevolence moaning)

the heady feel
of self justification
plays
like a march of
drunken giraffes(still the reminders of the lost feel vacant)
the worms
feast
on the engorged
disconnect
of wholesome sin(each shade weighs less than breathy denial)

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