Sounds a bit John Donne

Breasts and thighs so firm,

Lying cold at the mercy of

That fruity graveyard worm

With age you consider more

The destiny of your remains

When time puts an end to

Yearsful of aches and pains

Bodies decay, even one as

Delicious as bonny Linda's,

Whatever made her stipulate

Bowing out in hot cinders?

Either way she's history

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A black pen, a worm chewing through

wood, waiting for flesh.

Crunching its way through shadow.

Candle wax on skin

setting hard in its way.

A flick of the wrist

and the ink scratch stains.

Trying to find a way

to communicate with vision.

Spew out, eat up, digest, reset.

Calculating the way with mind

set to epip...

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