How Bravely I Write

How bravely I write of death and all things sombre.
I skewer these with subtle words.
Pain and loss are fodder for my verse.
And then how pleased I am
With grim thoughts well expressed.

A rabbit runs across the road, then boasts of the cars he missed,
While mourning those who sat transfixed.

I write not of love. That's old hat and trite at that.
I'll hear no petty gibe at my envy.
Nor will I write of daffodils or clover
My muse much darker and more noble.

How bravely then I write and face my foes.

As though the cars could care
Which one ran and which one froze.