The Slave's Cry

The whip, a striking adder.
The fist, a raging bull.
Thorns sleep in our feet.
Grass slices our cheeks.
Sun scorches our heads.
Frost sears our toes.
Deliver us.
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Death

I want to meet him. Death.  The one who has taken  everything from me to keep.  We must be similar if we  love all of the same things.

  • Death
    I want to meet him. Death.  The one who has taken  everything from me to keep.  We must be similar if we  love all of the same things.
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