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The Carcass

 


A cloth worn,
With a last breath it’s torn.

The carcass

A vessel made of clay and bones,

The only robe the soul has worn.

The carcas

Baths with care,

But a few days the dust reclaimed it share.

The carcas

When the soul takes a trip,

The carcass left to drip.

The carcass 

No longer bleeds,

Its purpose served, its final deeds.

The carcass

Once kissed by life’s flame,

No voice, no name.

The carcass

Adorned in silk or rags, the same,

Returns to dust, without acclaim.

The carcass

Not the end, but the shell released,

While the soul journeys

In search of peace.


Patrick Ekong ©️

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