The Smell of Dead Things

Uninvited, he sits
as words surge past
to slice away years.

No flutter of membrane
betrays the presence
of three thousand simple eyes,
watching as dreams
are butchered below.

Perhaps he lingers to dine
on Shiraz, clotting
in the carpet’s frayed weave.

More likely he waits
because of his nature:
drawn by the smell
of dead things.

– Ryan Stone

First published in The Black Poppy Review, May 2015


15 thoughts on “The Smell of Dead Things

  1. Ahh.. more of you.. walking down that cold, dark path, never knowing whats around the corner, or who is watching from the overgrowth. Perfect words for the picture of things coming to an end, of loss and scars.
    Painfully beautiful.

    Liked by 1 person

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