Curdling brain-dead provokes the vomit spree,
With above my cadaver sits a scorched black tree.
Bare branches hang out with a red rusted swing,
My being cut short on a piece of emaciated string.
The crumbled leaves lay trodden and crushed,
Rotting further down my body silent and hushed.
As night approaches the milieu grows cold,
Time passes, with a site of bitter green mould.
This dwelling, is my new home, my grave,
But I died, and not even a farewell, or a wave.
