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Death

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The demonic wind whipped through my hair.
The smell of brimstone filled the air.
His bony fingers reached out and pointed.
Although unexpected, this visit was preappointed.
Although the man screamed and kicked,
There was no way out of death’s bony grip.
The hooded figure swung his scythe,
And on that night he took the man’s life.
Death’s grip will come once more,
Maybe to knock at your door



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dark_stars96 said...
Jun. 23, 2012 at 12:22 pm:
this is amazing its deep kinda dark but amazing
 
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NickyJ said...
Feb. 23, 2012 at 6:51 pm:
I can not tell you how many poems I've read on this site that I've not liked at all but couldn't tell the person because it might hurt their feelings.

This does not apply to you. I really like this poem.
 
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