4 – Purpose

Soft, supple, rotten and bloated
Each movement sloshing in refuse
Cold sockets stinging in disuse
Slow, dredging rivers flesh coated

Drying over these abused eyes
Ichor invades my final sense
Hours escape me, losing tense
Crying. Failing. Pry. Removed. Skies.

Sight returns without a meaning
Across wastelands all demeaning.

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