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Poem

A dead end street like road to hell 
A burning bright flame, you can tell 
A deep pitfall with no way out 
It takes your soul without a doubt 

A sharp sickle of death awaits 
To put some dead souls in the crates 
Towards the way to endless pit 
Without a vent, even a bit 

The grim reaper waits with his scythe 
And in his eyes, there is a blithe 
For, there's one more soul, he will take 
Or his glory will be at stake 

And just before the barb-blocked end 
You can do nothing but to bend 
That miracle will pave the way 
For you to pass the tragic slay

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