Life is but a burglar, in wombs unprotected an almost impregnable fortress of flesh. Slipping up alleys, and leaving accomplices who fail far behind.
Breaching nest eggs, where treasures await, sustenance for nine months, plus great futures of promise.
Birth is a pardon, with clean slates for all the first gasp of birth, brings a world full of pickings. years spent procuring, a wealth of possessions, through honest hard work, or by means most find shameful.
Death is a pawn shop, where life is exchanged, when it's battered and weary, each is judged to be, worthless or worthy here many will gain
blessings, heavenly riches, while others will get paid back in most woeful ways.