Death, My Soul
Between Breathe,
Death gave an awry smile
And didn't kill them but scythe through their body guest,
Like sickle scythe round grains,
People of the heads and hearts
*DEATH, MY SOUL*
My body guest
Flee from death
Only to be caught
By another.
*paciolo pen saint*
Paciolo Pen Saint
(C) All Rights Reserved. Poem Submitted on 09/29/2019
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