Untitled
Death stood by the road side
and swung his hand to get a ride
Many stopped by, but was never favored
And some came, but he never entered
When the road sirened my coming,
he rushed and placed a checkpoint at the middle;
my body became the car he rushed to enter at last
And eyes, his whistle for a clearer sight
He then control the steering of my body
Straight to his packing log: the grave...
Like an owl waiting for the night,
am here wishing for the sound of the trumpet.
Poet:
©Cheto
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