Breath
Riddled with needs,
and want of can't haves,
sown with the seed,
of nothing but maths
What reason I make,
that death knock my door?
By simple sinking,
a little pain or soar?
All total recompense,
that will bury my make,
when I fall to whence?
But this, my pride,
my remembrance of me,
just a trip in my stride,
but then I'll be free
1/ 29/02
©Hannahlore Starr
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