a poem. you'll seeI

Whirring sounds resounding louder, 

Stirring not sleeping the fate is creeping

On people,  shouting and hissing

with voices Whizzing, louder and louder.


The black spots begin to blotch your skin

Imbuing and staining your ivory perfection

And the black death is crawling in covering

your whole body with the verdict.


The haze will not raise the maze its made

of the head once strong that can now

not go on the whizzing, and whirring and stirring and hissing

now too broad to beat the black death,

spread by buzzing fleas,

called bubonic.

The End

5 comments about this poem Feed