Scorn

I laugh at death, accuse her whore,
for she seduced, while in the mirth
of life, my comrades, when she tore
their fragile plants from out the earth.
So, if her finger beckons me,
enticing, luring me to go
in meekness to her skirts, and be
enfolded in their pleats, I know
my parting will be well-content,
since neither rot, nor all decay,
erases those few moments lent
by many years to one who spent
his life compiling just one perfect day.