---
The Forest floor,
Rot rises in puffs of smoke,
A carcass lies, or one that's almost;
Breathes a final breath.
Each day, biting, this breath leaves him;
Gentle fingers curl and twist his bones -
A sum of roots, chewed and eaten...
Grief on show for unkind eyes.
---
Watch him, watch.
Twisting, curling, spiting out
The dying breath
From lungs of mold.
Watch him, say:
"Remember, one so little.
Remember, oh so young.
Remember
To thank them for their kindness
When they place you midst the
Saplings."
And he will laugh.
And he will dance.
Rotting, twisting.
The taste of hunger always lingers.
Just like bones.
Someone's.
No one's.
Who's to blame?
