by macabre thoughts

a bad poet.

death's race

When Death stutters, he does it with a

machine gun precision, like you'd expect, he did it

on purpose.

And when Death slurs, he does it with a

wasted elegance, blood tainting his lips as he assures you that

he is mostly sober.

When Death stumbles, he does it with style --

or better, he likes to pretend you didn't notice that

he's slowed down.

When Death sleeps, that's when we suffer,

when Manhattan slums are built and refugees multiply,

and the world boils over with people.

And when Death wakes, there are tsunamis

and Chinese earthquakes, and sometimes,

there is balance.

But Death still can't keep up with us

in the human race.

three things;

first, this is a collection, and most of the chapters will be not only unrelated but often in different styles

second, the collection will be updated daily.

third, it's likely that the poem above will not only be vastly different to material I will post in the future,

but the future ones will, with any luck, be better.