soul reaper.

with every
reason
the poem loses
a part
of its
soul

with every
rhyme
the poem
dies
a little

a poem born in the
mind
heart
and
the gut
is
full of
soul

purer than
the burning
passion
in his eyes
and
the heat
between
her legs

truer than
the tears
that
well up
when you’re
kicked in the
balls

it is then
strangled
with
meanings
purpose
words
till it
is nothing
but a beautiful
corpse

and
here I am
the soul reaper
waiting
writing

watching
a poem
die

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