An old man died alone… Dark clouds.
A spirit cries,
as he noticed over a thousand flies,
on the inside of the window,
death holds its own special horrors,
an old man alone,
in the clutter of his home,
100 degree heat,
decomposing with attitude,
from the top of his head to his feet,
cooking in there for a week,
his skin sliding away from his chest,
and death would do its best,
obviously pleased,
the old man rigored and diseased,
face down, waiting to be found,
no one around.
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