As Decomposing Soy Meat

Modern poetry modern verse contemporary poetry contemporary verse modern poem contemporary poem

Consider what will be when your heart dies,

When it is nothing and will be as if

It never was.  A gathering of flies

Around it laying eggs because the whiff

Of rot excites them will be all that you

Will be.  And yet . . . you think your soul will be

In it, or, rather, feel that you, the true

You is released and levitates near “Sea

Of Crystal” up with non-existent Christ.

If so, then even that will be away

From rotting muscle flattened by the heist

Of non-existent soul as fly-egg prey.

  Completely nothing, that is what your heart

    Will be then, smelling like a putrid fart.

© Phillip Whidden