Friday, May 6, 2011

Only Poets Can Fly Without Wings

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bleeding feet
oh death
where is thy sting
as i go
round and round
and round the ring
searching for life
hereafter among
all things as life
on this fucked
planet gives me no
solace sweet nothing
even singh is controlled
by a remote a singh
who is no king
scam corruption
grows in his back
garden the common
man takren for a ride
what a fling
zenitude and zing
nothing but pain
more pain
it brings
man a monkey
from one swing
to another swing

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