Cimmerian Fog

My mind is not black.
My mind is not black, even
if my words are ashen.

I write about a Cimmerian Fog,
but I am not black.

I have been carved like a pumpkin.
I am dying just like that.
Every day, I sit on a porch
waiting to start the process of rot.

It is slow,
and so I move like honey
wishing to be baked in a hot, hot oven
where warm hands will pull
me out hungrily
and eat me.

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