The Pen and The Wind

The writings and musings of a windswept soul.
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The scent, devoid of life,
A sterile chemical odor,
That contains the stink of plague,
All the pestilent poxes struck down,
Their rotting corpses do reek,
But that is not all that it contains,
For the musky trail of the reaper,
Does waft upon those sterile breezes,
A haunting warning to all,
That which life fears most resides here,
You might not make it out alive.  

  1. penandwind posted this