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Beneath the lid of splintered pine, |
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the earth presses down like a lover’s weight— |
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too final, too complete. |
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No scream escapes; the soil drinks it, |
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turns it to mud in the throat. I am the hush between heartbeats, |
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the pause where breath forgets its name. |
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The coffin is a cradle reversed, |
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rocking me into the dark’s slow womb. Then they come— |
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not as invaders, but as heirs. |
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Maggots, pale commas in the sentence of flesh, |
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punctuate the skin with wet punctuation. |
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They tunnel through the map of veins, |
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erasing borders, rewriting countries |
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in looping, mindless script. My eyes, once windows, |
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are now soft fruit split open; |
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they pour their jelly into the wood. |
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The tongue, a traitor, swells |
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to fill the mouth like a drowned bell. No light, no clock— |
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only the patient gnawing, |
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the slow applause of decay. |
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Each maggot is a small white priest |
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administering the last rite: |
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dissolution. I do not rot; |
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I am translated. |
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Bone by bone, |
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I become the grammar of the grave, |
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a language no living mouth will speak. And when the earth finally forgets my name, |
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the maggots will have finished their hymn— |
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a quiet, wet amen |
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echoing in the hollow of my ribs. |
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Revision as of 10:42, 12 November 2025
Utah Transit Authority S.C.
- 어디쯤 가고 있을까 – 전영 /
- 水晶の家;
- 流星の高原
- 花鳥図
Riverside Red Wave
Lethbridge Bulldogs RFC
Beneath the lid of splintered pine,
the earth presses down like a lover’s weight—
too final, too complete.
No scream escapes; the soil drinks it,
turns it to mud in the throat. I am the hush between heartbeats,
the pause where breath forgets its name.
The coffin is a cradle reversed,
rocking me into the dark’s slow womb. Then they come—
not as invaders, but as heirs.
Maggots, pale commas in the sentence of flesh,
punctuate the skin with wet punctuation.
They tunnel through the map of veins,
erasing borders, rewriting countries
in looping, mindless script. My eyes, once windows,
are now soft fruit split open;
they pour their jelly into the wood.
The tongue, a traitor, swells
to fill the mouth like a drowned bell. No light, no clock—
only the patient gnawing,
the slow applause of decay.
Each maggot is a small white priest
administering the last rite:
dissolution. I do not rot;
I am translated.
Bone by bone,
I become the grammar of the grave,
a language no living mouth will speak. And when the earth finally forgets my name,
the maggots will have finished their hymn—
a quiet, wet amen
echoing in the hollow of my ribs.

