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Updated: Fri, 3 Oct 2008 01:23 am

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lonely, recluse.


The helms of the citizens are upon us. The bell calls for all dying men to heed the call. Death can be a number of things; The end of a pulse or the profusion of thought? Death breeds decay; It breeds light relenquished by fears. The path to death contorts the soul. I never feared what i didnt know. Unstable thoughts of a shrewed place; Of a deturgent so weak yet to intoxicate. The working man is a walking death. He walks very day yet to no avail; No quality of life; Just a subsided dream to survive. The weary working man loses all context of existence; Yet is drilled to return to work every morning. Death breeds the angry soldiers of the world. The devilish plights to which the night-time breeds Are sheltered by sin and their hungry dreams; Of their erectable paths so loosely seamed; Beyond a life of no meaning Of a lifeless being. Death is angered by love, The romance; The cure of everything rotten. The meandersome art of a bird, Seeking a damp and dismal caress At the hands of death. Death fears love as love fears death. Death is but a word, Scribed upon souls yet more importantly paper. Death is the english dream. So abrupt, So irrelevant, So misleading. Life is the roots to the world; A stem to existence; So petty and insecure, So dull and mulled into a thought so obsecure. Life drives man crazy, It tortures the minds,

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