Poems: A Morning Routine
Cadavers with half-eaten legs,
a bloody hand, eyeballs oozing
out from cracking sockets. Bones,
they are bones, crab muscles,
rotting, languid tendons
half shredded through the middle
parts. There is a heart, somewhere
on the floor. They are still
alive, moving around, spiders
without eight legs. They have
taken over most of the room.
I have stopped trying to be
Frankenstein. I gave up
on a new species. The undead
are what I have left to work with.
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