As I, the one who can see,
the forlorn faces in front of me,
behind the rosebud hips I must be.
While, they ooze and reek,
I hide behind my beak,
with the intent to sneak.
The wailers groan in pain,
all my efforts are lost in vain
to see life in their eyes again.
The shadow of death arises,
to foe and friend alike,
their death, a heady type.
I push past their mutated mimes,
look upon their vital signs,
I, the symbol for trying times.
In the piles of carrion
I see before me,
a long and bleak path,
past the corpses that death has so vigorously imposed on.
His invasion is necessary,
but I am not his adversary.
I work to fight for life,
life that God has so precious made.
I bear the task of selecting the dozen,
while death does not bear pardon.
While he does the reaping,
I do the seeding,
preserving the crops
where the few dozen grow,
in God's goodly glow.
And so on I must go...
Memento mori
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