Wind blows gently across the plane,
It’s soft hands sifting through the grain;
A golden ocean crashing endlessly,
Relentlessly splashing,

Colliding with the setting sun,
Deep purples on the horizon,
Lulling the world to sleep with hues of blue,
And sweeping clouds askew.

A depression hides in the field.
A secret quietly concealed,
Some wandering soul now lost to the earth;
A cost assigned at birth,

A body of anxiety,
Now bereft of society,
Become a bloated, bountiful buffet
All decayed and fetid.

Yet the wind still finds its beauty;
Perhaps a false sense of duty,
It circulates the smell through the valley,
Life rallied with a knell.

A perfect place for young flies,
One decides as it lands on an eye,
And then skitters about to find its place,
On the face to be mined.

It rises and lands on the cheek,
A landscape both supple and weak,
But then the cadaver struck the fly dead
And said none would have her.

Then settled her hand to her side,
Contemplated the world outside,
And enjoyed her death as best as she could.
The good life, she thought in jest.