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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
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Submitted: April 20, 2013

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Submitted: April 20, 2013



The air is a miasma

A repungent sea of abandoned hopes,

nightmares, blinding darkness, and death.

It looms over the city like a great beast

Siphoning the colour and life from anything 

And everything it touches. 


Its great arms, the harvesters,

Pick and choose which of those below

Will quell its unsatiable appetite

For the sins and misdeeds of mankind. 

While panic and fear spread through the masses

They do not but feed their own doom,

Blacken the sky, and hasten the end.


But while the great hero is taken,

The vile mosquito is left untouched.

For although it has been judged as 

A pest, bringer of disease and death, 

These judgements came from man,

And are subjective. Man sees themselves

As the righteous ones, and yet spread

Blood to defend their zealousy. 


And as the hearts of men do not change,

The great human legacy will

Turn to ashes, while the mosquito 

Flourishes in the filth of purity. 


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