No Hero

I remember a time when daffodils flourished in rain, in the graveyard, nary a care for the wind or spring air. I remember further down, along the stonewall, the desperate crying of kittens for mother. And I know they'll be found, though it has to be me--a hero, a savior, discoverer to be praised--for those kittens then did i care? The vole lays dead on the stone in the graveyard, its insides consumed be insects, recycling, new meaning, no meaning at all to the corpse, the shell of a vole. Disgust I feel, and with hate and revulsion I violently flick away the beetle bearing its offspring, its children it wishes to place in a good home, nourishment, shelter, and life.... I came not to grips, I accept not this life out of death, for a memory I never had--I cling to. Let is free! It desires to live, not to lie, and lie to all it is not dead. For death in this world is a window of freedom, where beauty, infinity, haecceity meet.