Death has a pretty ****** job
Forever recycling souls
Only allowed to travel to
Destruction

All he knows is
The smoldering ashes of war
The popcorn sound of bullets
The shredded wreckage of rubber and metal
The hastily tied nooses or desperate pills
The haunting screams of children

But I think Life has it worse
For at least Death can take comfort
In playing the role of savior

Whereas Life is trapped
Forced to give his gift
To those who don't want it
Prolonging the suffering of
Heartbroken lovers
Lonely teenagers
Impoverished families
Tortured widows and lost orphans

And if each were given two words
To repeat to their victims endlessly
Death's would be "You're welcome."
While Life's would always be "I'm sorry."