Business Of Death

These mortal remains

That you drag home,

Unswervingly,

For a mysterious reason,

Could best match

The marlin of Santiago,

Sans the accolades he amassed

For his uncommon courage.

The immortal souls

That effortlessly flee

From those culled carcasses,

Blinks before you own them,

Would someday trace

A pound of flesh yet again,

To house themselves in,

And tease you to chase them

For their futile frames.

This business you run, O Death,

Would land you someday

In an abyss of ceaseless agony,

Blinding you from your

Supreme goal, yet undiscovered.