I see, I hear, should I fear?
It's certain that the end is near.
Mushroom cloud raises high,
with its blaze that erase
everything that lays in its trace.
I watch from not far away
knowing that I cannot stay.
But where to go?
Where to run?
There is no spot
under the sun.
I warned, I fought
but soon I'll rot
like the rest of them
who avoided this thought.
The fire blazes me, fuck it's hot.
What appeared like a random plot
it turned to be a plan of a chosen lot.
Image from pixabay
Its really true
Poetry is the rhythmical creation of beauty in words.
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