Wheeling Gull Isle I wrote my way out

the vertebras released their built-up air with pop, pop, pops.

the spine-bearer made a sound of finally-found relief. rising from its stretch, it yawned, revealing asphyxiated tongue.

it blinked at the scenery; a beach. like any other, in whichever direction one walked.

( in life there might've been some admiration to be found in the sight, some soothing of the soul- 

now, there was only the thought of how poor of a mound the sand would make )

an unfamiliar appearance; white, easy to notice. an intruder? no, who would bother?

a recruit, then. another sheep for the good father's flock.

the non-sheep soundlessly bared its teeth, fur on nape bristling.

then resting.

the corpse sat, sunken into the loose granular substance.

and without much interested - and only slight distaste - watched.