bed-rotten

I’ve been in freeze-mode so long
the air forgot my breath.
I feel bed-rotten
like maggots poking through
the soft meat of brain cells
that once knew how to bloom.

A corpse preserved too well
gray beneath pale light,
then green,
then something nameless.

Still,
untouched by seasons.
Time keeps moving
outside my window,
but I’ve been stuck here,
wrapped in the same sheets,
watching everything happen
without me.

But even dying souls know
what it is to wake
when the right storm comes
to stir the dirt.

And maybe,
just maybe,
this stillness
was never death.

Maybe,
it was the seed
before the bloom.