The One that Has Wings

Time goes by, you still fly by. You would have been good as you are fried by the sunny light that burns. A crispy furry resting duck sits lonely on a bog of a dead trunk under the fiery sun. Yet, it still pecks and is pecked by its own seed. It is alive and flying sadly among the gilded trees which torn apart its broken wings. Yet, it is still a prey of its own hunger and its own lust that burns its fur hiding its corny pelt of a tusked animal and the hot blood cells in its burning veins. Fire in the hole! KAZOOMED! A moment of silence... Nope, you're just dying. Make a net to trap that wish come true.