# Rotting

Владимир Сергеевич Коншин

They say I"m ripe, but I"m ripe to rot,

With every year, there"s less that I"ve got.

My bones get brittle, my heart turns to dust,

This grown-up shell is cracking from rust.


Flesh overgrown, but hollow within,

A mask of maturity hides rot in my grin.

Counting wrinkles like rings on a tree,

But I"m cracking, decaying, a ghost of me.


I"m falling apart with each passing age,

Trapped in the guise of a grown-up cage.

Youth left behind like an old, shed skin,

All that"s left is the rot creeping in.


Roots sinking deep, but I"m tangled in weeds,

Feeding the soil with all my lost dreams.

They say that I"m growing, but I"m fading fast,

Rotting away in the shadow I cast.


Flesh overgrown, but hollow within,

A mask of maturity hides rot in my grin.

Counting wrinkles like rings on a tree,

But I"m cracking, decaying, a ghost of me.


So here I stand, all grown yet gone,

A figure of flesh, but my spirit"s withdrawn.

If this is growing, then I"d rather fade -

Than to ripen for rot in a grown-up charade.