Cold meat For Dinner

Tiny paws upon my hands.

Weave patterns on the backs.

My palms against my stomach

Where the skin is cold and slack.

My buttocks on unyielding pine

My pulse is long since gone.

The muffled world is darkness

Where my lifeless eyes once shone.

The tiny paws upon my wrists

And creeping slightly higher.

I’m nicely dressed in three piece suit

To watch angelic choirs.

Tiny paws across my chest

I’m glad my heart has ceased

Or they may have heard the beating

Caused by terror of their feast.

I could stand to bear the gnawing

If it stayed on lower limbs

But the tiny paws are rising

So intent on higher things.

My coffin may be empty

Of my soul, too late to rise.

Yet still I’m here and dreading

Tiny paws that reach my eyes.