EXAMINATION AT THE WOMB-DOOR
Who owns these scrawny little feet? Death.
Who owns this bristly scorched-looking face? Death.
Who owns these still-working lungs? Death.
Who owns this utility coat of muscles? Death.
Who owns owns these unspeakable guts? Death.
Who owns these questionable brains? Death.
All this messy blood? Death.
These minimum-efficiency eyes? Death.
This wicked little tongue? Death.
This occasional wakefulness? Death.
Given,
stolen, oh held pending trial? Held.
Who
owns the whole rainy, stony earth? Death.
Who owns all of space? Death.
Who is
stronger than hope? Death.
Who is stronger than the will? Death.
Stronger than love? Death.
Stronger than life? Death.
But
who is stronger than death?
Me, evidently.
Pass, Crow.
