The Dead Don't Care

I grope, I fumble. 
I do not seek 
any death. 
You will divide, 
my body, my soul. 

Concealing a double 
of god, you disappear 
in zero visibility. 

The bullets, 
the knife. 
Will they break the pride 
of defying the norms? 

The nonviolence speaks 
from podium. 
Hate breeds hate. 
Would you drop the weapons 
for enemy? 

A rose will say I don't know.


  • James Michael

    Hate does breed hate, and the dead really don’t care.

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