Quack

Pain on the outside, from being on the inside,
following possessed ducks on the way to matricide,

as each one waddles, each one dies,
as mother hobbles, she continues lying,

her kind eyes still vying,
seeking flowers at the end of her vine,

the dance is final but for all time,
the puddles watch and judge the whole line,

a trail of still eyes,
still following like they could find,

a sun in their mother's back,
her life in one final line.