I'll chase death to his hole
For that cold scare he buries in me
Like thousand bees
After me
In my dreams
Death shall deaden, judder, fumble
His feet shall hurt for his evils
Till death can't stand death no longer
But death connives with fear
They plot to take my only dear
The earth cannot gulp my anger
And naked death lies
Waiting on me that i uproot his lies
No more must he don that muffler
He shall not hide his face
And pretend his blood is of a gangster
For where he dwells is nowhere
Yet still, death shall move with tired steps
On his way to his last breath.
If and when we would decide to read poetry or a piece of discerning article a day, our world is, then headed for a change. No magic potion whatsoever: if there were, politicians would have used it a long time ago. Our mind is all that we have; the only exception to tricks of all corners and angles. Enjoy the luxury and peace of poetry...
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