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,