Sreejith Nair
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Walking through the rubble maze, honking walruses, directionless craze.
The exhausts seem to be exhausted, blowing like worn out dragons, The sad departure of human genesis, swept by purgatory gallons. The sun has been masked, with black floating ghosts, why can’t the sun be asked, To burn what destruction hosts.
The wind seems carrying the nectar, for those who seek asylum in hell, The sweet breath of death, is daunting than the tolling bell.
The swan song seems a century too near, The trail of the comet will sooner loom, Hitting us before we hit out, the life of our existential gloom. Private Reply to Sreejith Nair (new win) |