Carrion
The lumps of flesh and bones lie nestled
in the rotting leaves littering the forest floor.
How long it has lain there seasoned by the rain
as worms work through the tattered tissue.
She approaches the rotted flesh directly,
at a slow cautious pace.
As if it might reinvent its self,
rising up a demented force of instincts and endurance.
She gently snuffles the carrion,
as a lover would nuzzle the neck of his mate
after an evening of playful passion has sated desire.
Mellowing to a glow of contentment,
she breaths deeply of the foul stench
letting it fill her flaring nostrils.
The scent awakens an instinctual desire
born in a bygone, primitive past.
Flittering through the Jungian memories;
a myth where all the names and places are burned.
Only the shapes and figures remain visible.
All memory has been twisted, sorted and unsorted
till it is simply her shadow cast upon the forest floor.
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