Stone cold

A deep profound sadness crept over me as a fog

and this blanket is all I have to keep warm

I sleep where shadows blow through the muddy bog

soggy earth my mattress in the storm

Cypress and lily, charcoal dreams of crows

A mouth full of ants in swamp grass

A draft blows through worm holes

sending shivers through raising bubbles of gas

Bloated, a floater, face down in the slime

dissected by all that's small

foundation black, base of grime

makeup for the Swamp night's ball

Author's Note

I had a friend in graduate school that had a part time job with a mortuary picking up dead bodies. He said that the worst were the floaters.

Reviews

[Betty Hermelee]

This is quite gruesome, but your words are excellent, great choice to portray the dark deadly scene...one thing I know is to stay away from mortuaries because I think I would faint.... you did a fantastic writing of this "slimy" event...words are perfect...
Warmly, B

[Soren]

Thanks Betty I appreciate your read and comments.

[Betty Hermelee]

You’re very welcome my. Friend
Warmly, B

[mou]

I feel painting the crude and dark imagery is one of the toughest job in the context of poetry but you've done it so well. A poignant write!
- mou

[Soren]

Thank you Mou your words of encouragement are deeply appreciated,

[mou]

You're most welcome

[Ken Simm.]

In line with the subject this is forensically well written and pathologically atmospheric.

[Soren]

Thanks Ken for reading and commenting on this piece it means a great deal and is appreciated.