Frustration
Fear
Flames of fire.
Everything in turmoil
Under the supposed smooth silk.
Keep good appearance,
But lies creep through
Like insects digging their way
Into an embalmed corpse,
Sucked dry from the sandy
Stormy winds.
The crumbled pieces of deteriorating flesh
Are still there,
To join the rubble
That fly in particles,
Never to be seen again,
But to add onto destruction.

Will the cloth
Keep at least some of it left?