Death, o weaker foe;
Snatcher of feeble and unknowing.
Of these troubles, can’t this sweet night cease?
This body so embroiled in miseries unending,
The soul be snatched, to lie alone;
A mass of illusionary promise halted,
To rot in its own convictions.
Sadness so cold, drags my soul to the soil.
I never knew it would be so empty
Not to be around Margaret.
On the projects paths I crawl
Closely past the walls for warmth and company
And it gets into my bones
From where I explode into a monologue to God
‘God, with all these beauty,
Should I, the writer, just waste away?
Led into numerous knowledge, comprehending,
Can’t I capture the attractive fore-boardings of the coming life?
Often magnificently carved inside my reflections.
The answer relies on the reality of your breathe’.
Entering my conclave
Nakedness is spoken thereof;
Copulating in a doggy-style era; came through mightily
While still inside her, I reached for my gun;
A bullet blasted through my head.