Mother Nature’s Son

You hold war in your hands
Spit the remains to the sea
You grow old,
As do we
You grow sick,
As do we
You do not strife
You do not lose
In fact, you do not beg or revolt or weep to God,
As do we

Hard headed and ill
Lay where space is infinite,
Without command
Stubborn, in your manner
Death is easy and forgetful,
You kill for its ease
You age at each birth
Each birth cries

I am sorry

 -Viana