Miss USA is Dying

The room reeks of sickness, 

Her rotting flesh sours the beige curtain,

The star-spangled blanket worn and ripped 

Sitting on her feet that does nothing to keep her warm 

Now unsettled with her decaying state. 

Her lips are bruised and chapped, 

And with each word that comes out 

A raspy wheeze starts from the tips of 

Her tongue  spreads out to her teeth. 

What happened to her loud voice? 

Her face has sunken in, 

Her eyes, ones of which 

Carried a flame which once 

Could burn many civilizations 

Now a lukewarm coal. 

She was sick from the beginning, 

Her frail body hidden beneath 

An illusion simply fixed together 

With cheap super glue and duct tape,

Covered with a tattered blanket.

• america
• poem
• writing