I Am Rotting Poem by Beverley Katherine

there is a bird resting upon my open palm
long-feathered in maturity
bright-beaked, melodious
vibrant in life.
It's eyes bore into mine
like pangs of hunger.
There is no cure for this disease.
I am rotting.

A bell is heard in a glorious tone so far away
that it seems as if it just the wind
it projects a cry, to only us
we are all so enclosed.
I am rotting.

Gnarled roots are
blisters of dry black clumps the
scar tissue of ancient oaks, baked in light.
scars like these can never be healed.
I am rotting.