The seasoning house is percolating inside out,

cadavers piling up in closets telling stories,

each bone tells a story, each rib sieves a story,

stories and stories and stories and s t o r i e s…

nooks in dry lifeless cells,

the dead speak, you know

their voices quiver and sound distant winds on lonely hills

with houses standing in the face of  the cyclone:  A cyclone on their own

turbulently simmering and percolating with cadavers in closets

telling stories, edgy-sharp- bladed stories,

hurtful and painful; yet, very vulnerable

spongy gossamer architected  cadaverous stories

did they decay, smell, darken, blow up and ooze in your cadaver farm closets?

did the vultures, rats, flies, and worms find them tasty;

do we use them to fertilize our land and season our bread;

those cadaverous stories in closets in lonely houses on lonely hills that percolate and simmer?

did you steal pharaonic embalming secrets then buried them in their finest garments and jewels:

a smile you drew on their  hard cold cadaverous lips;

lips that tell stories in seasoning houses on lonely hills with simmering cadavers in closets?!!!