Email Poem

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Poem

I stand on leaves, dead
My toes entwine skeletal remains
of shells, bones, limbs and all stuff, dead.
I sleep on cotton sewn from cotton buds, dead.
My bed is hewn from trees sawn up, dead.
The air is full of smells and wafts
from the pile of composting debris, emanating from the dead.
There is no escape from 
the tug of entropy begging me
to join the dance of the dead,
and to be rendered down to dust, dead.
It beckons and pleads to claim my dust, 
to scatter it randomly disordered,
devoid of structure,
blowing in the wind, swirling up
into the nostrils and mouths of the living,
to join the dance, and prance til dead.

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