Up From the Dead

Dead, Dead. Decay and rotten flesh, melting beneath the scorching sun. Worms, maggots, and flies- a parade in time with the vulture's drum. Teasing, tearing, ripping this way and that, dashing, splashing like an artist painting madness. Bumblebee, whisper to me: Am I dead...or just asleep in the scariest dream? No... I can't be dead. I refuse to be dethroned. Oh death, you have no sting. I have clipped your wings. A man of all seasons, I fight in every round. Knocked down... but rise before I hit the ground. Yeah, I am not dead.