Rigor Mortis

You don't just drop dead

Your membrane wears the guise of a ghost when the colours have fled

The eyes' only choice is to beckon the crawling clouds that will burrow in when they arrive 

As the pumping muscle loses its role and gives up red

Breath is banished and pain called in to lay in your bed

The scarlet stream is dragged to lower ground

With its residents in bruising shades, soaked and forever bound

As the brain sits in deafening silence, shrieks sealed before it starts to strive

The concaved cages can only distort, their engine not around

Preparing to perish with the loss of your pulsing pound

Your vessel claws for warmth that slowly backs away

Running from pores marred with decay

The mouth attempts to move, only letting out silent screams for it lost its drive 

Blistering agony cradles the frigid form, its beloved prey

Mutilating with pleasure, a nefarious foreplay 

Your extremities contort and freeze

Torments elongated, allowed to do as they please

Scratching and scarring the ears, never growing smaller as you slip into stage five 

The corse is released, a statue now at ease

But never free from the repeating disease

Your viscera break and blot, a snap grotesquely conjoined to a swell

And the air shares space with a noxious smell

Burrowing into the tongue, leaving no bittersweet taste, the rancid reminder to revive

Form becomes fluid, only to backtrack and amplify the damage, a heartless spell

Know you are the living dead, chained to this ceaseless hell