by macabre thoughts
a bad poet.
When Death stutters, he does it with a
machine gun precision, like you'd expect, he did it
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.
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.