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I have been dwelling quite a bit on death lately, haven't I?

NaPoWriMo day 9! All comments welcome!

"Pygmalion's Bride"

We're all fixated on death—
arrows, all, streaking towards our targets.

Ovid understood it,
understood the metamorphosis
of sinew and bone to soil.

A one hundred foot long
pink lightning smear stretched
along the highway
where the reaper reached out his hand
and plucked a rabbit from the side of the road.

The day when target, arrow, bow and hand become
one and the same—
transformed to something more than stone
and less than flesh—
for now is small,
a mayfly I may swat away
     with a complaint about the open window.