Lying on the Ground

Lying face down in the earth,  
The place of your birth,  
With hard, sharp, little, granules of soil puncturing the skin of your face,  
As it rains, turning to mud, caking to your face,  
Drying, becoming crumbly,  
Your only assembly,  
The birds, coming to pick at your body.  
You watch them feast, too weak to move your body,
You feel them tear into your hair, skin, muscles, tendons, ligaments, and organs, exposing your bones,  
Ripping fleshy fragments clean off your bones.  
Your nerves are ablaze with pain,  
As you lie there in the rain,  
Your hair matted with blood,  
As you sink into the mud,  
From the flood  
Of rain, tears, and blood.  
With each peck of each diseased beak,  
You feel yourself getting weak,  
Getting weaker and weaker,  
Your vision becoming hazier and hazier,  
Until your sight goes black,  
And the last thing your soul remembers from that life, was the maggots beginning to crawl into your torn back.