Thoughts During A Morning Stroll
written by: Mark Scheel
Something dead in the roadway lies
with splattered gut and gray-glazed eyes.
Furred or feathered, claw or nail,
with or without bushy tail,
what the species matters not.
Dead is dead. Rot is rot.
Something dead in the roadway lies;
the only mourners a swarm of flies.
And we being flesh shall share that end,
be it soon or around the bend—
be it in bed or some jungle muck,
struck by lightning or a passing truck.
The road of life may be curved or straight,
But its end for each is consigned to fate.
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