Death rides in on silent hooves,
As slaughter comes to a farm yard lamb,
Trust your days as granted safe,
To ease yourself into an early grave,
The solitude of soil, the empty void,
Voiceless, senseless and outcast,
Sodden earth, and tears of loss, that acknowledge you gone.
Wind gusting wildly,
On a dead flame, a tombstone and fresh cut flowers.
Fools; we are,
Our careless ways,
Our bitterness outweighing contentment,
Fools; we praise,
For killing games,
all votes raised amount to murder,
Summon us all unto the slaughter.
I hear a murmur, an utterance,
Amid the crowd,
Mutterings, whispers,
Of soon-to-be ghosts,
Sauntering toward the precipice,
Zombie-numb, perhaps already dead.
Fearless they stoop over the daunting edge,
of existences, distances unfulfilled,
On falling down pierce the sky with words,
Then hit ground, like wingless birds.
Strange creatures, roam the earth in the shape of humans,
Fickle willed and floundering into the arms of end,
Man thinks himself Christ-like,
And crucifies himself fittingly,
Yet with unholy grief and shame.
Death rides in on silent hooves,
With nothing to gain,
Nothing to lose.
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