Pulp

I took an air-rifle, shot a magpie to the ground & it died without a sound.
Your skin so pale against the fallen autumn leaves &
No-one saw us but the trees.
Yeah, the trees, those useless trees produce the air that i am breathing.
Yeah, the trees, those useless trees; they never said that you were leaving.
I carved your name with a heart just up above - now swollen,
Distorted, unrecognisable; like our love.
The smell of leaf mould & the sweetness of decay