We are perishable foodstuffs,
As if stored poorly in a pantry,
Life eats away at us,
Spoiling us over the decades,
Many simply go to waste,
Forgotten as soon as the casket shuts,
Some are only preserved by their feats,
Charity or depravity,
But not us creators,
Art is our vinegar,
Our formaldehyde,
It pickles us,
Yellowed pages stinking of ethanol,
Yet stings upon our wounds,
We write to live forever,
Paint to become immortal,
Magnum opera as epitaphs,
Books and portraits and sonnets,
Where our bodies once were.
