A week has passed away
since he lay down on the dirt to bleed
his way to heaven.
Since then he has made a home
for a bluebottle maggot colony
and lies consumed by the fauna of his own colon,
distended with their gas excretions,
and creaks like stretching leather.
At the moment of release
when his abdomen splits and implodes
it is not his spirit ascends
but a fountain head of metallic blue flies.(c) 2013 Slush Poet
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