Earth
filled with death,
those who wish it,
those who dread it,
it finds them all,
sometimes slow,
fast,
or in between,
filled with pain,
or painless,
like a
heat seeking,
tracking
through thick
and thin,
always nipping
at your heels.
Young,
old,
strong,
and weak,
victims of that cold,
loving,
embrace,
from war,
age,
or sickness,
bodies stinking
and rotting
on a battlefield,
or scorched
by a fire,
such a
beautiful sight.
Blood seeping
into the
ground,
out of
wounds from
bullets,
knives,
swords,
or axes,
lying in the
only grave
they will get.
Sickness,
so beautiful,
ravaging
a land,
thinning
the population,
doing
divine work,
cleaning up
the mess.