Death

The stench of lying still grows stronger
I tried to be right. Being, the damned stringer
Growing old, but still much younger
Learning to differ my tears from pain and hunger

The solemn songs slowly drags near
Wishing the broken voice telegraphed more clear
why It was meant for us to gather here
Inexcusably planned like a drunkard to beer

He too really comes sodden, sudden and cold
Minds not weather, the young or old
Never sieves, picks proud timid or bold
Collects nothing, leaves silver and gold

This storm would not stop
Even if I plead from the highest mountain top
There even he gets to you telling you to hop
And drop like the tears, drop form the top

Self believed and cunny he roams the earth
Hiding from him in water rocks and under earth
Useless, He gets them all without breaking a sweat
Within us like skin hair, humbly called Death

By Jason