It does not stir, it's certainly dead
Lying in a pool of congealing red
It smells like lost life, I know it is dead.
This something has been rotting here
For longer than I'm sure,
I do not try to move its offence, I do not care of its presence.
It is dead and I ignore it but the smell is warm and sticky in the air
When will it rot away completely they ask but I do not really care
This dead thing that is food for rats is dirty and diseased
I remain seated in my chair while rats run round it like beasts
They take parts here and there and I watch them drag it away
The pool of blood, left so long is now a thick and creamy stain
When all has gone but me and the chair, the stain with still remain.