It's wicked to mock the afflicted

Another Poem about Death

(I swear I am quite happy these days)

I have never seen a badger. Now I must revise that statement. I have never seen a live badger. I infer from the proximity of the A316 that its death was the result of the weakness of flesh against the velocity of metal. Although no visible violence can be seen on the small animal’s body.
For weeks, on my daily commute, I have seen the process of its decomposition. The cold weather has shielded my senses from the vulgarity and revulsion of its decay. Instead I have watched the subtle dissolution from a seemingly sleeping creature to a dark mass hardly distinguishable from the earth around it. Its fur first expanded, filled with unsensed but fetid gases created by the expulsions of feeding bacteria. Then it deflated and its fur was picked by birds for nesting material. The exposed flesh blackened and shrivelled. The rain pushed it further into the soil and splattered mud to camouflage it further. Except for the glimpses of bones and teeth brightly seen. Everyday, I have a harder time satisfying my morbid sightseeing.