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.