It’s like standing on an edge,
Peering over going,
“This would be easy.”
Knowing full well,
You’re going to die.
That fantastic fearful mind,
Of the descent,
To belong,
Among that demonic plague.
Nay, brought lower,
To those bowels,
In which none chose.
Where the only company,
Is one’s own self.
That reflection,
In the cracked lake,
Your company,
forever.

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