Poetic Decay
the death of a poet can be a beautiful thing, as the skin withers and rots away
the body turns black, as the eyes steer astray
bacteria grows, as the teeth break away
their skin turns to leather, and the bones to dust
their beautiful casket, now ugly and brown
their tuxedo or dress, now smelly and old
these are the things that come after death, but there's still one left
because last of all comes the putrid stench, of poetic death
-Carlos "House" Gerardo
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