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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
When you measure the distance between the rich and the poor, it is sometimes a distance that can't be reached, but what if when death comes to mind, is it still a distance?

Submitted: April 17, 2016

A A A | A A A

Submitted: April 17, 2016




Mudiaga Maxwell Iki


They came through by means of sophistications;

Like sterilised tools and enlarged medicated halls.

They came through in oddest and old dampness;

Like fungal farms and enclosed dangers that kills.


They went through in quickness

And solidified scapulas.

They went through in slothful pace,

With damaged scapulas.


They basked all day in love and attention,

And stride all night in strength and fortification.

They sigh all day in bitterness and total decline,

And regurgitate self pity and ruminate weakness all night.


When they stand,

They fall.


When they speak,

They scramble across the floor like an army of mice.


They have the entire ace to give,

They lack any of the aces to take home with.


Yet when they die,

They tumble across one another watching with rat eyes

And ravage funeral delicacies, in scavenging tenacity.

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