Rotting High

Flocks of crows flying high

Pecking flesh that they desire to try

Eyes pooped out and gut blood dry

Impaled on a spear where sad souls lie

Organs spilling, with my head, popped out

With decaying flesh and no energy to shout

My dead companions stabbed with the same fate

Showing flesh that hungry scavengers await

Skin infested with misfires maggots and worms

Bodies half-eaten into gory forms

Half alive and naked, a spear impaled

While my lifeless eyes, fallen on the ground, weep