"Another Text"

The flies haven't forgotten,

Found once I was rotten.

Nobody is there,

But they care.

Revealing more inside, than I could,

Like having tetanus, a knife would.

Incisions they make,

Internals they rake.

Death was beneficial,

Gives them what was wishful.

Need not hurt,

I'm but a stained shirt.

Not washed, nor thrown,

Left away from the hamper, thy throne.

I am on the ground,

I am not a mound.

Red fields they graze,

All the same taste.

Soaring and crawling,

Appreciation is a craze.

Generations found,

Within temporary ground.

Swell and implode,

That was the loathe.

I cannot arise,

I cannot love flies.