I am sometimes a Great Blue Heron. Stick legs stuck in the muck. Eyes darting, looking for something moving which signifies life. I am sometimes an otter, who playfully teases the world. I am often the turtle on the log, unable to move, drunk on sun.
You are the snake in the grass. The Cottonmouth waiting to strike. You have no rattle to warn with. You have adequate color defense, but you carry death in your mouth. It leaks out the corners. You are dribbling poison as you stumble forward.
None of this will be here in a thousand years. Things are born, die; they are often quickly forgotten. We can't drag the train of our dead with us, we would never be able to move. You will cast off this grief, eventually. At the very least, you will return to the muck where your purpose is clear.