17 grudnia 2011
Death
Sweet sweat filling my nostrils
Choking this vital air meant for my lungs
With a stride that doesn’t care
And I listened to his voice
Cool timbers of a drum that echoes my heartbeat
But his mind is numb
Piercing my thoughts
With ebony eyes that gaze over me
As steam does rise
But this rhyming is pointless
He will never perceive this passion inside
That I wish to leave
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