Sunday 15 March 2009

rotting wood

It is more like rotten wood, having soaked too long in water. More like stale food, once so succulent and fresh, now over ripe and revolting.
Yes it was a pretty sight by the river bed; I sat there forever for it was the nicest I had ever felt. But the river was damp, and my bones are mortal. I rot here as old bark; I rot here under my sweet smelling skin.
It keeps going on and on, infernal train, tortuous ticking of time. Though I sit and just watch it pass like some boat on the water while I’m on the river bed.
G.G. Melmoth

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