Our Gift

What's in a birth?
Expectations?
Anticipations?
The Conception of hope?
Sloppy, passionate sex?
Conception?
Nine out of twelve?
Maybe less?
Pain persistent
Yet transient for mom?
Perhaps, but is it?
Then there comes life
Like a weed grown
In a weed-choked garden,
Raw and crude.
"Death makes angels of us all!?"
Maybe.
Life makes demons of us all
And gives us horns
Rough as jackal paws.
Life consumes the born,
It perverts us.
What's in a birth?
Beauty twisted by pain,
Writhing like a wraith,
To the cacophonous end
Of all celebrations.
"I will not go,"
I scream defiantly!
But is there any choice?
Death is the muse
That life gifts us.