The devotee of death has learned to stand in silent rage
at all the living, breathing souls passing before his cage,
and sometimes now, he’s learned to smile, yet seething in his hate,
to see the old and sick and worn, to see and know their fate.
Too soon he’ll smile at the babe nestled in mother’s arms,
and at the lovers, hand in hand, wrapped in each other’s charms,
for from his prison he will see, as age gives way to age,
that on them all the trap must fall, and they’ll enter his cage.
Tale Told 