poetry | the death
Delight is nowhere,
as something is truly been stolen.
Valour and deameanour is elsewhere,
of a man burried under, not forgotten.
Splendid life of man,
prides and greeds filled, he won't ban.
Lagging time and nothing else it gave,
What could dignify him in grave.
The time runs as it be,
and deeds benevolence or bad, hard.
Death is there set free,
following and leading to grave yard.
Life is just vain,
of a man really bane.
The eternl darkness of his grave,
shall come up against his brave.
Boon indeed is bright,
of a man quite great.
There shall never be fright,
in his grave only be light.
Death precisely is immortal,
as it hunts down every mortal.
Happiness is least in life bound,
when sadness calls and found.
Nothing is left in end,
accompanied is mere death.
No gained volitions in man's bara hand,
when he is solitary in depth.
