Successor's Name Is Death-Bell
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The most audacious dynasty will beget darker.
When I'm not on the moon, prefer courtship.
When a child is accustomed to bearing a light.
A scotopic vision marker to support you to view finer at night.
"Follow the Dust," I'd say.
A feeble pace at once.
Dwindle to that cognate yawning egress.
It's all around aping falls.
Soldering and thumb pinching through advent.
Grasp a deep breath and inhale the fly and its shroud.
Leopards swallow their own stripes.
In the womb, a furious fleshly critical stage.
Crushed limbs, legs, and bones
The tongue taunts, ravages, and slashes.
A blade of trouncing stirs the heart, head, and breast.
Seasonal mutations and season lapping
To belay the womb is alike extending the beck.
Slap the crying baby as the doctor lauds the progenitors.
The game probes over time, and the tape flashes back.
The infant is delivered in agony.
The cycle sustains. Opposite.
The calyx steadily shuts and unravels.
Nervous swimmers accept the offered hand.
We grasp a deep breath, cough, and rise.
I am aware of my circumstances.
Solemnities in the exploding quantities.
Fire according to man's precise maps.
The shelter and the roads linger both sites of death.
At clubs and crowds, there is death.
Death, death, and again death.
Written: February 22, 2022
Copyright © Sotto Poet | Year Posted 2022
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