The Dead Girl On My Wall

Theres a dead girl on my wall.

She was hung in an old gnarled tree.

Her body was eaten by the buzzards years ago, the noose unraveled and blew away in the wind, the tree cut down and bulldozed.

My house now stands on the spot, I live where she died.

But every night, the shadow of her corpse appears on the wall in my room.

She wears a tattered night gown, ragged on the edges and sleeves.

Her head rolls on the broken neck, her long matted hair covers her face.

The buzzards tore off her right arm and have pecked at the left so much so that it hangs by a single strip of flesh.

The bones of her small, child fingers are bent like claws.

A breeze of a time long gone blows her hanging corpse, making it swing.

As it swings, it rots.

It rots before my eyes, falling apart, piece by piece.

I can even smell her rotting, decaying.

I can hear the maggots eat her insides and the buzzards fight over the stinking meat.

As I lie in bed and watch the gruesome theatre, I think,

"What did a little girl do to be hung from the boughs of an old tree? And why is she still here?"