Do you tire of my prose?
And from the despair from which it arose
Are you bored of my endlessness?
And the black of my dying breath
Come, let us end it!
You and I
This night
In a bath full of my red
Dead
Does it complicate you, my verse?
And the foreign coin of my purse
Are you distracted amidst the hum drum?
And working out whether to hide or run
Come, let us extinguish
You and I
This night
In my world burned to dust
Dead
Do they drain you, my words full of dread?
Or do you wonder of this mess I release from my head
Are you a voyeur as I chant and entrance?
Or do you desire in my rhythm to dance
Come, let us celebrate
You and I
This night
In my ceremony of glorified
Dead
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Author:
sylviasearcher (
Offline)
- Published: October 31st, 2019 18:15
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 24
Comments1
Neither, your prose, your verse or your words to be dreaded, when expressed so eloquently. And when it comes to death, it should be naturally welcomed, the sooner the better.
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