For the Early Worm Gets to Laugh for the Only Time in its Pitiful Existence
Nothing seems to be able to wake me up better than the smell of a pear, blossoming in the early morning rain. The dew washed clean, the blemishes cast aside. Nothing but a perfect bud remaining, soon to become fresh fruit for us all to devour. But in lieu of a blossoming pear tree, the friendly odor of death's touch does wonders to pull me from my slumber. The curl it gives my lips, the hunger it instills in my eyes, are second to none. Sometimes I arise in time to see your blood still finding its way home. These are the days that I know it is good for me to be alive. For if there is no one else who can appreciate the beauty and grace of the early bird trampled by the early garbage truck, or the sight of a young runner face down with a congested heart, then it has all been wasted. But it has not been a waste, not yet. Not as long as God still rewards me with a blood red sun casting black shadows in the middle of day. Not as long as the sparrow's children fall to the earth, wings too frail to fly. Not as long as the pain in my chest is a reminder that I am still alive. Someday these things will cease to be. But that day is yet to come. But be on the watch for when it does, that it will not catch you by surprise. For there is nothing more shocking than the unexpected end to death.