The Rotting Pulse

In the hollow of a chest, where shadows creep, A heart once beat with fervor, deep, But now it lies in a cradle of bone, Forsaken, forgotten, utterly alone.Veins like twisted roots, blackened with blight, Once crimson rivers, now frozen in fright. Each throb a whisper, a wretched cry, Echoes of life that refused to die.Flesh peels away, like petals in rot, Scent of decay, a scent time forgot. The pulse, a rhythm of sorrow's refrain, Beats slower, fainter, beneath the strain.Maggots dance in a macabre waltz, Feasting on memories, gnawing at faults. The heart, it withers, crumbles to ash, In the darkness, where nightmares clash.But still it beats, though life has fled, A ghastly rhythm, a dirge for the dead. No rest for the weary, no peace in the grave, This heart, forever, a prisoner, a slave.Left to decay, to rot and to bleed, A testament to hunger, to insatiable greed. It yearns for release, a final breath, But finds only torment, a perpetual death.In the hollow of a chest, where shadows creep, A heart decays in a prison, deep. Bound by sorrow, chained by despair, Forever beating, in the foulest air.