Natures Child

The beast of wars,
Make the childish nature of men
Scurry about among the wings
Of Death’s open limbs.
Desperate of their darkest times,
And knowing their fate is set
Among all things that pass their gaze.
Time is but a device to the weak,
To gauge the length of their escape
From the hands of the strong.

Isn’t but life an escape from Death?
With time against us at every turn—
No matter how long the escape
Time is but a second way
To our ultimate end,
That we cannot escape.