Beneath the warm yellow sun I walk;
my soul lies with their back against the cold, concrete road.
Where I walk, the air is brilliant with its warmth;
my soul with torn clothes feels chill as they mourn.
Is there an end to a mourning that serves no purpose?
For my soul doesn't know what's the funeral for
but it is as eternal as the sun and as countable
as the stars.
The maggots are having a feast; with them joins my soul.
At the dinner table, what my soul devours make them a monster.
Because some say,"You are what you eat", and
my soul feasts upon it's demons.
They mourn but they have to eat:
Like I have to so I can live.
But my soul feeds off of me too, yet they rot.
Even though I am walking, even though I am not a corpse.