Life, that diligent poet, day by day
Scrawls his work upon us
In blood and tears and sweat and spit
Until our time is measured in years
And we are covered in lines that he has writ.
Death, contrary, is in no hurry
To share her darker verse,
Saving the craft of her rhyme
For a quieter time
When we are more likely to enjoy it.
- R. Cody -