My eyes terrify shy flies from deathly skies.

The rotting abundance of clotting speed 'round.

My sockets rest easy for these are corpse, I don't deny.

The repulsive smell erupting from their remains waits.

My senses sense the terrible scents through the rye.

The loss of interest for it remains agape.

Although I long for them, to me they are dead and dry.

The End

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