Thursday, 8 July 2010

One hundred and Thirty Four

My morbid mind it thinks of Death.
My neck it feels the foetid breath.
I wish I knew how to be sure,
To keep his bad news from my door.
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1 comment:

  1. Mariodacat9 July 2010 at 05:11

    So many of your peoms are sad. Are you okay? You do write bootiful poetry.

    ReplyDelete

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