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Monday, September 6, 2004


A sonnet I wrote
He might come to get you in the night,
His scythe moving up and down through the halls,
He might come even though the time is not right,
You see his shadows appear on your bedroom walls.

You realize your life clock has run out,
His demonic voice speaks to you of dying,
You cannot make deals with him or pout,
He tells your life, even the times you were lying.

You follow him in the portal to Hell,
His bony hand grasps your arm dragging you,
You kick and scream and give a loud yell,
And think to yourself and wonder what to do.

Fire reaches you as you take your last breath,
You have now just experienced your death.


It's called death at your door. I wrote in in english last year. I lurve it.

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