Thursday, 4 April 2019

The Death in The memory of Living



From outside a death-roll strikes the air
The stink of mourning hangs everywhere
She will scrub the world clean for the new generation
I suppose she look as such a good soul should
She does not need
My name nailed upon the grave
I will not be amazed to face her one day
A light of freedom in my house
Probably tethering my fate for one final time
When her wrath come forth like fire, and burn my hope none to restore
As bare as December tree I would lie stand still
Breast heaving
Eyes staring
I who am but dust and ashes
And to dust I shall return
Death will shine forth until I reincarnate
When the lifespan cry for help, the death hears.




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