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Poetry: Dying

Dying

Treadmill time flows endlessly.

Players all are we,

As dancing fireflies on an escarpment,

A foreboding mystery.


Death's head revisited 'mongst Nazi smiles,

The conveyor belt of doom roars on.

Boldly the butcher chops his steak.

Recklessly entropy winds down.


"Next!" shouts a man hidden in shadows,

As another comes under the knife.

"Next!" screams the dark, wraith like figure,

As he cuts a jigsaw wife.


I couldn't send a telegram,

To warn them of the storm.

My tongue, a frozen Popsicle,

As nearer came the swarm.


"Next!" the chattering, gleaming skull,

Laughs into my face.

"Don't you know," it rasps mockingly,

"You're sure to lose the race?"


As ice wells up within my veins,

In this killing place,

I can't cheat death so I launch my soul,

Into the face of grace.

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