Mold’s Quiet Claim

The fridge door creaked—a trap sprung loose,

inside, the air was thick with bruise.

A plastic shell, half melted, spilled

its darkened heart, the shelf was filled

with slime that clung like whispered shame,

no name could mark this slow decay.

The sour drip traced lines of neglect,

a kingdom lost to rot’s cold sect.

No fruit or meat, just death in folds,

forgotten cold where life once told.