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.