Poetic Stories

To the dying songbird, I lamented, “O’ dear, can’t you sing for one last time, only for me?”

“Hear the hyenas tearing up my skin. It will be a faint drum beat in the making.
The buzzing flies will find solace in my body. I’ll be immortalized by being a refugee camp.
The sweet percussions that my bones will make when those vultures will feed on them will be simply… amazing.
The sweet scent of rotting flesh will add to the atmosphere like incense before classical music.
The mild ambience of maggots feeding on the flesh will send the performance to the next level.
After all is gone use my feathers to write what comes to your mind when you observe my unbecoming.
That will be my last song.”

“That’ll be. That’ll be my… favourite song, dear.”

It took a long time to finally write something. Please comment whatever you think of this... whatever this is!!!