Aloft,

you nod

and blush

 and simper;

there is nothing to suggest

that your core is

full of worms.

Plastic smiles

and wooden nickels

are bread to your butter,

static to your cling.

You have cleverly hidden

the stench of death

under a fresh Febreeze,

but the day will come

when the nearest nose

will  get more

than it bargained for…