moth-eaten

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We are the instruments of decay.

Taxidermy delays the inevitable.

Preservation may be state of the art.

Mounts may be kept under glass.

But light fades the bright feathers and fur.

Air gets in through the cracks.

Desiccation peels the glue back from the glass eyes.

All crumbles.

Beetles, moths, larvae leave the trophies beset by innumerable munching mouths.

We have always eaten the dead, whether in the gutter or frozen in place on a museum shelf.

Every wild face we eat set in a rictus as we slowly dine.

Fur, feathers, bone, wood, cloth.

All will be eaten.

All crumbles.

We are the instruments of decay.

Created: Aug 01, 2012

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