Some have it lurking quietly under there

Ready to spring suddenly from its lair

And when it does - it rushes out to pounce

On its prey ... measuring them by the ounce



And when it runs them down - it then bites

Upon the neck and then gets ready to smite

A final damaging blow which will tear apart

The last vestiges of that which was God's art



Then pulls it to pieces as it devours its meal

Savoring every last bite before the birds seal

Up the final fate which has befallen this soul

Leaving what's left to the insects which crawl



And then the bones do fall away and disintegrate

As they become one with the earth and thus grate

Into powder which is absorbed by sand and dirt

And then it does seal over and thus - there is

                              ... no more hurt.



- Tristram