For Scavengers

 
Savagely carved
And minced to uselessness
I remain, a souring heap
With vitals lumbering
Toward the arms of sure decay

Beneath the infernal rage
Of the high cart wheeling sun
My flesh singes away
Blistering in the scourge
Of my foolish stagnation

Paralyzed
My existence boils
Sprawled hopelessly
To endure
Submissively and frail

No complaints
Can escape me
In this rightfully earned
Mire of strife