Vivares
Death constantly begs for a bit of you,
for just another small bite.
From the crib to the grave
death begs for morsels.
It is a house dog
its purpose
is to guard the larder.
Patched up limbs
get stronger then weaker,
bones get adjusted
to a back-and-forth
dismantling.
When life has drooled
out of its brain,
when the larder is almost empty,
then does it come
for one last can of worms.
It tastes awful,
but it loves you.
Death would be only a shadow
on an X-Ray
if it did not love you.
All that begging,
until at last, loyal death,
(your trustworthy companion),
clings weakly to its
selfless hunger.
In a city of crippled angels,
young boys laugh
as they throw stones
at a starving cur.
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