Necrobiome
I am the witness beneath the skin,
A parliament of rot, where truth begins.
Not in the blade, nor in the bruise—
But in the bloom of fungal news.
Trace me in the soil’s lament,
Where archaea hum in sediment.
The body speaks in silent spores,
A map of death across the pores.
Fibres fade, and pollen lies,
But I persist in posthumous ties.
I archive heat, I measure time,
In microbial verse and forensic rhyme.
The insects come, the gases rise,
But I remain—beneath disguise.
A eukaryotic elegy,
A whisper in the entropy.
So ask not who the killer was—
Ask what the necrobiome does.
It sings in data, hums in bone,
And makes the corpse a metronome.
Necrobiome
© Copyright: Руслан Трохнюк, 2025
Свидетельство о публикации №125091505089
Свидетельство о публикации №125091505089
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