Death
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Damned death, does it dilly-dally,
darkening doors then squirm pass by.
Disfavor of blood dark alley,
doors impassable; man, to die.
Dressed in a shroud, clutching a scythe,
dimmed soul as it began to writhe.
Dread fills the desolate valley.
6/6/2018
Copyright © Eve Roper | Year Posted 2018
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