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The Rot. a poem? short story? I don't know.

This poem is very dark and disturbing.
If you are very young or faint of heart, you should exit this thread and go read a poem about flowers in the sunshine instead.
Otherwise, read it slowly, line-by-line and enjoy (If 'enjoy' is the right word for it).

Rotting in the dark.
Time without measure.
Hours? Days? Years? Ages? Eons?
Eons of silent decay.

I see...
'I'? no. 'I' is consumed.
'I' died long ago.
It sees the blade.
Formless memory comes of the blade's glory:
The blade is sharp.
The blade is shining.
The blade is immaculate.
The blade is beautiful.
Memory fades.
All things do here.
The blade is glorious no more.
The blade is broken.
The blade is rusted.
The blade is ruined.
The blade is Its last friend.

It tries to reach the blade.
Its feeble strength is almost gone.
Its hand moves.
The brittle remains of skin fall off Its arm.
An arm that has not moved in decades.
Billows of dust and fungal spores settle.
The claw-like remains of a hand clench the blade.

It rejoices in the embrace of Its last friend.
Slowly, Lurchingly, Inevitably it moves.
The creaking bones almost make a noise.
A noise is almost heard in Its gaping, infested ears.
The blade moves towards Its withered neck.
It extends vast effort.
It squanders Its last energy.

It meets the blade.
The blade pierces:
A euphoric kiss.
The blade cuts:
A loving caress.
The blade breaks again.
The final time.
It grieves in silence for Its dead friend.
Its friend will be forever faithful.
Its friend will never abandon Its neck.

Sensation awakens.
Or is it pleasure?
Or is it ecstasy?
A thick, black drop forms on Its neck.
Once, Its blood was red.
Once, Its blood flowed freely.
Once, Its blood was beautiful.
No more.

The drop grows.
The stench increases, rising above even the normal reek.
The drop becomes heavy.
The drop eases down.
The viscous filament connecting It to the drop breaks.
The drop falls.
The sticky drop splatters onto the soft, festering floor.
The worms abandon the remains of the drop to tunnel into the floor.
Hours? Days? Years?
Time passes.
Another drop falls, repeating the morbid spectacle.

Death does not come.
Death is not a devoted companion.
Death is an impossible dream.
Death is a forsaken hope.
Death is a forbidden bliss.

It tries to scream in frustration.
It fails.
A soundless gasp comes alone.
Not alone: accompanied by myriad spores.
The disturbance startles many creatures.
Some of them rush out of Its eviscerated torso.
They disappear among the snarl.
The tangle of fungal tendrils and entrails that litters the floor.
The spores glow in the gloom.
The spores diminish and disperse.

Death is Its only craving.
No, that is not true.
Its only craving is for an end.
End to sensation.
End to misery.
End to being.
The end is imminent.
The end is inexorable.
Someday It will no longer be It.
Someday It will be assimilated.
Assimilated into The Rot.
Its True Desire.


This is one of my very, very rare ventures into the world of poetry. (The last time I did anything of the sort, I hadn't found Frihost yet.) It would be very interesting to know what you think of it, especially those of you who are poets or appreciators of poetry (which, unfortunately, I am not). I was inspired to write this after reading a certain book (It would also be interesting to see if anyone can guess which book), and it kept running through my head in fragments (making me quite depressed) until I wrote it down. I'm glad to be free of it.
I'm definitely not a poet myself (or even an appreciator of poetry), but I really love what you've written. Most poems that attempt to be dark are just corny, but you've managed to completely avoid any aspect of that. In addition, I found it very easy to feel as if I was inside the speaker's disturbed mind as I was reading it. Great job!
^Oh, so it is actually good? I didn't really think it was.

ThornsOfSorrow wrote:
I found it very easy to feel as if I was inside the speaker's disturbed mind as I was reading it. Great job!

That might have something to do with the disturbed state of my mind.
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