Open
That gilded casket.
Her cold body
Lies stiff,
As cold
And
As frigid
As her mother’s thoughts.
A new victim,
The prey must feed upon,
When hungry.
It seem to remain
A pleasant garden
When you plant it
Tidily
In rows and columns,
Hedges and climbers,
Creepers too.
Until the plants
Choke each other
And
One
Arises
As
The Victor
To conquer
Most of the
Space
And food.
Nothing exists
In ultimate harmony.
This life
Is a battlefield.
The choicest of
Wars to pick
From a bouquet.
Questioning everything
Always dampens
The earth
On and on
Without a warning,
Perhaps a tsunami
Perhaps
As gently and unexpectedly
As a baby
Still in its diapers,
Pissing when it does,
Not when it needs to.
Somewhere outside
A squirrel runs
And stops
To squeak
Before scurrying away.