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Thursday, May 15, 2008


The burning heat had charred my weakened eyes
and on the ground I saw a horse’s tail.
I stopped. It was a frog’s poor legs and flies.
I saw the head as well, the tongue so pale.
And stretched along the body like a tree’s,
its twisted limbs, all gruesome green as dales.
The skin a flattened brown, ripped open, free,
the blood the colour of a rusted nail.

The flies – a million –all lucent black,
all crawling, fighting, filthy in their greed,
spread over their delicious feast of flesh.
At their delicious meat they crudely hacked,
the spoiling skin a more enticing treat,
all chewy, more than if it were more fresh.

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A word is dead
When it is said,
Some say.

I say it just
Begins to live
That day.

- Emily Dickinson

Thanks, Wordle!