Breathe the air
Feel the sun,
the pencil upon the paper.
Like today's your last
on this hell we call Paradise.
The ink on the parchment
The leaves in the wind.
For the sweat upon your brow
the corn in the fields
And the crows that feast upon it
Till no more is left
Then you shall perish
with life in your heart.
© Copyright 2016 Enw Anhysbys. All rights reserved.
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