Poetry

Twinkle, Twinkle

Being born
is a
death sentence,
the Reaper
sniffs out
our first
fog
of
breath,
tracking us,
carrying
our death
close to his
chest,
always
mystified
by our
apparent
surprise
when he
arrives
while the
stars
simply
smile,
they’ve been
around
awhile,
watching
suns
expire

Categories: Poetry

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