Maggots Poem by Chris G. Vaillancourt

Dangling sentence hanging from
an upturned lip.
Intense eyes strangling
a look with malice.
Growing maggots.
I resemble the graveyard.

It is empty in the middle of the day.
It is silent.
Dead corpses rotting
in the ground.
Dead faces pressed like rocks
in their coffins.

Undertaker dressed in black.
Does his job.
Speaks his piece.
Smiles.
Phony charm, distressing mood.

I hurt.

Let the air out of the tires.