The storm troopers of death
Have taken the beloved one
We fought by his bed
All day and all night
But it was nothing compared
To his own struggle
till the end
His struggle till the end
***
Wait,
Dad,
Don’t go
***
Wait until we find a cure
***
Don’t
hurry
up
***
Live with us
***
Live with us
***
You will always
live with us
Happy reader.
Reads everything she likes.
She’s got a huge library at home.
Informed reader.
She understands the place
of everything she reads in culture
and wishes there was a meaning
for everything that stands.
Poetry nowadays is just a
grip I’ve got (a)following the
advise of Henry Rollins.
I write verses to survive or,
more accurately, to find relieve.
Just the same as someone
who works in his garden or
practises sports after work.
No message, no hopes.
Just caprice.
Caprice.
David Murders 