To The Bear

Oh to die by nature.

Men can be evil,

with everything.

If evil was the end

my last breath might flow

to spite or curse the men

who took the life of a man.

I’d rather face a sore

old bear and feel

claws carve me to strips,

and teeth tear and crush

bones, skull, heart and veins;

and tongue lick muscles

into the gut, for winter sleep.

I’d prefer that end

to suffering life lost

by a human gang slaying

without hunger or skill to kill.

Battering, hacking, bashing, booting

until life is taken away

in a most unnatural manner.

Then evil is fed instead  

of a sore old bear

trying to make it to spring.

Starve the evil so that

it must consume itself

barely sustained by its own

black heart and sooty lungs.

Losing life to nature

is useful to everything

helping all go on and on.

Losing everything to a man

is an infection on the living,

a pox on sharing souls.

My life to the bear.