Why speak ill of the ones passed on, over whom flies hold their long debates and maggots wait their turn.
Where putrid flesh undiscovered for weeks, becomes fluid and vile as alone in a house lies the body of one unidentified.
For none missed the silence of this name; no post, no callers to find this shame!
Flies and vermin were honoured guests, who took control and that den did they infest!
A corpse, a carcass, rotting flesh; ideal environment for this confess.
A memory, what memory?
DNA will ascertain a family maybe.
Still yet no one knows John or Jane Doe, who have pestilence as guests residing in their home.
Who would guess that life could end this way, and a body decomposed and rotting in a hovel lay.
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