Shakespeare Journal 2
a foul stench is in the mist like from the graveyard foul despair, yearning pasengers dawn
of the plague cast into a hollow grave no on can mourn their death for it be forboden to go
near deaths closet less you want death to open the door and push you inside forever more
walking the streets deathcarts in hand sadness leaks through the clumsiest bands of strength
the families have no wonder why the death bestowes your glorious dome of gold and plunder
just like a strike of lightning and the thunder to just to dialate the roughness of the dumb
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