Brain Rot

Flies buzz and captivate the hearts

of their maker. Some form of art

echoes through your soul, cold

enough to wrinkle your skin so old

and decaying rot spreads over the

earth filling every pore up all the trees

into the forest fly and become lost

in ecstasy so far there are no thoughts

floating in your silly little head

laying on the pillow the breaths from the bed

change the sound of your own voice

What? How can you hear through all this noise?