PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Inches of ground have tried to reclaim his
body that's sunken beneath mangled mass.
Metals and steels that once would propel him
have sought a betrayal of fortune and solace.
Eyes were aglow, now they've been blinded
by the worms and the maggots that house in his head.
Fingers were steady and grasping for substance,
now all but useless beneath the caked dirt.
Yet he finds himself conscious, against all demand
by nature reclaiming his flesh and his iron.
He thinks yet to stand, wonders of purpose:
why rise to face what yet can be conquered?
His steam on reserve had fallen dry wells
and without his dear aid, he'd attempted to travel.
He'd grown so damn heavy, his legs nearly shattered,
with bone so exposed and covered in meat.
The glint of his silver could not shield his soft,
supple innards from the day's frightful heat.
His guts found their boil, with birds overhead:
carrion buzzards that wait on departure.
"Why must I wake?" he thought in his daze,
watching the shadows wind all around him.
"I'm dying so slowly, I can't move or turn.
Why must I witness my own sad demise?"
A cough from his gullet sent dust into air
and startled the scavenging birds standing near.
The sounds of his breath were coupled with clatter
from every gear which had surrendered to filth.
He'd yet to go deaf; heard squawking and pitters
from all forms of life who'd draw life from doom.
His senses unfailing, besides that of sight,
allowed him to suffer as he settled his going.
Then as the torturous sun would engulf him,
he found it cascaded by merciful shade.
The air had grown cooler, wet with the coming
of clouds and a front of moisture and gray.
As clear drops of water then fell on his back,
he did what he could to bring their rotation
from still liquid life to his own moving vapor,
desperate and longing for one final stir.
But he found himself damaged beyond all repose,
and though steam was rising, he now could not.
So he smiled a bit, amused by the storm,
calling up memory of how he'd arrived
at such a great interval, now drowning in mud,
and at great losses for words which to cry.
With last bit of steam now pumping through limbs,
his dominant side was lifted while shaking,
and in the squashed ground, he drew but a heart,
sighing aloud as his shut down commenced.