I am the Procession; I am the Death.

And over nights like this 

When the moon turns away 

I slip away the clothes on my wounds 

And expose it to the unkind air.

It laughs and I see the skin rot 

Soon the maggots come

Rushing forth like a child-

Uniting with its mother after months

And I decay with a beating heart;

I decompose with sterner legs.

My bed becomes a rotting grave 

I lay upon the layered dead bodies with my face. 

It might be a wicked world out there 

But I have no name for what is within.