Bonus Poem: Final Breath

Bred by the heart that’s caught fire.

Claw at the back in simile.

In more than only name.

And yet,
to thrust,
pierce fate,
a word used most in hate.

So we stand,
amid rust,
society decayed,
to carry on as we must.

But when,
blown to dust,
our greatest feat,
We’ve no recourse but to admit defeat.

But such,
is Nature’s gust,
when soiled by us,
and left in a fuss.

She will,
with her great crust,
up-heave and quake,
not stop ’til we awake.

And from,
the miserable thrum,
of cyclic life and death,
compel from us our final breath.

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