The Crow

Death hunts me like a crow to a skeletal carcass - 
a husk of myself, still ripe for the picking because there’s somehow marrow left on these bones. 
When it seems I’m finally hollowed out, 
thus begins another round of feverish pecking at my frame.
Those marvels are said to represent transformation  -  and yet life feels perilously the same. 
The days …