I speak of Death
Of corpses clean with
No taint of sin, with
Souls pristine.
I speak of Death,
You say "metaphor."
What would it take to
Make you see the Reaper's
Real, awake and waiting
Somewhere near?
Give up pretence, hope
And prayer. All are
Illusion, wishful defence in
Collusion with your fear
That one day soon you
Won't be here.
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