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Augusts Poetry

All poetry by August... the good and the bad.

Monday, November 22, 2004

On the brink

Moving endlessly,
the vortex has me.
I can't die,
and I'll never get away.

Prisoner in an empty cell,
tortured by only myself.
It'll never end,
I can never escape.

Death comes for the choosen,
the choosen won't tell me how it happens.
So I wait here,
forever.
Posted by Unknown at 12:13 PM

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