I.C.U.

Dark clouds herald my day
Shadowed alcoves
Teasing with their promise of decay
The perfume of rot
Flares my nostrils

As I inhale that heady odour
Crows circle
Haggling
Arguing over some unseen feast

My imagination
Pictures a wallaby
Near death
The victim of a Toorak Tractor

You take the call
Rushing off to care for it
With barely a thought

Whilst I

Well

I die from the lack of such attention

© 2009, Mosquitobyte