An: ‘nother poem. Warnings: duh.

10/18/03

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Death can be as slow as a slug’s pace, time taking, akin to a sick patient who have a disease. Alternatively, death can be as fast as one’s sound would reach one’s ear, rapid, like a bullet from a gun that had been triggered and was shot. Then the said victim is dead.

Blood had been spilled.

The weak had been eliminated.

Is this death?

Some say it is freedom, to escape the perpetual black horrors and rape and the sheer reality. Others say it is carnage like how an innocent child’s fresh blood was splashed on a knife, dripping oh so gradually.  The child’s emotionless eyes reflected on her blood.

It is endless…

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An: that’s a very short poem. Read and Review!!