I have always been a part of the collection. Bodies writhing against each other, a mess of earth and wet as we thrust ourselves alongside moving flesh. An orgy of community, of dance and impressions made reality. A writhing mass of water-logged strings, joining and parting like lovers. Above, I can feel the resounding thrum of the rain, echoing through my shifting shelter of decay. I reach, moving past the roots and stones holding my home in place. The vast ache of life and endings surrounding my ever-curling body, beating a drum of flavor next to the throbbing of my many hearts; the damp of the soil helping me to breathe; my skin drawing in that life-giving mixture from the world around me.

Blind, in body and worship, toward an unknown god. I am the act of it. My body bending, head to the earth, with each bow. Reaching for an endless nothing with each stretch. My movements a grinding dance of ecstasy, as with each stride I find myself drawing closer to the surface. Toward what little light I can sense spreading through my body. A shivering echo of heat guiding my way. A decadence so holy that to gain it I must crawl through mud. Eternities spent, slicking myself with the wet of rotting waste. Feasting on the forgotten offerings of towering giants turned craven at my existence.

I am easy prey for piercing beaks and slashing fangs. My only defense is the warmth that surrounds me, hidden under the sweet vinegar of jealous decomposition. I am the mortician, cleaning up the remains, enjoying my feast. My only contribution is the sublime pleasure of renewal from a menial life, laid bare. A resurrection of life and limb when damage is served. I am horror, writhing in ecstasy for terror. I am longing, that old snake of temptation. Chewing through the apples’ skin and flesh. Making my home inside the hearts of those sleeping giants. Consuming them as they sink forever into their end.

Yet, I continue an endless climb to the surface of that strange eternity. Gnawing my way through tunnels of matter, leaving fractured trails in my wake. I am working my way up, breaking free of my sweet earthen cocoon toward that damp world above. I am the ache of offspring: born clean. Spent shells, left to nourish the earth, in the cavernous halls of my maze-like aftermath.

Unfurling myself from the clinging dirt that haunts my body, I taste the wet of the world around me. The steaming tang of mud and rot floods the air, smoothing itself over me. Could this be called freedom? This exhaustive ache of strained muscles after vigorous movement. The way my flesh shivers at the overwhelming dampness that overtakes me, more than my body could ever need. Excess and over-indulgence intertwining with the revelry of my experience, of this strange world that I interact with, the flesh of my body picking prizes from the path I travel. I can only worship the taste of it. This decadent longevity of void, stretching into endless silence as it twists and turns through the blades of flat swaying grass, growing from the plains before me. A jungle of plant life made uniform.

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Eleanor Graydon is an Australian Writer pursuing their BA in Creative Writing and Literature studies. They are also a full-time Carer, and a freelance editor. Their poems have been previously published in a small print publication titled Your Local Newsletter, and they have a Chapbook published through Amazon under an old pseudonym – Can You Hear ME? A Collection of Poetry. By Yami-Gray. Eleanor is currently working on their first official poetry book. You can find them on Twitter (@sleep_eurydice) and Instagram (@sleeping_eurydice).