I may be half-way to decomposing but I'm whole-heartedly in love.
The past may still be decaying in the empty kitchen cupboards,
but these moments don't rot away, there's no expiration date
if you don't want one. Everything is founded on the influence
of the mind on matter, of what you mind and what matters to you.
My writing and my self both reek of decomposing dreams.
I want to be fresh for when I am kissed, as a daisy ought to be.
But I'm not sunshine or stardust, I'm made of rust and loose roots
that wither and rot out of wet soil. But however I decay,
nothing has yet eaten away my capacity to blindly trust.
