Poetry – La Petit Mort 

​La Petit Mort

Chickens killed is fowl play

Miscellany o’ death or euthanasia is poignant 

And not as therapeutic as the smell of a bouquet

i am nihilistic 

And yet do not understand death 

Without a stab wound

i still fear the sheath

Holding a knife, any victim will

Be driven mad soon

Death is inevitable

We cannot take the key out of ignition

When it drives us mad

Doom! Doom! Dead!

A Cockroach is dead

You might soak in red

You might choke in bed

Still, we are prisoners

And death our jail

Inescapable, we tried

But we failed.

Anatomy will be the death of me

We live, we die

Why not let it be?

By Remmogo Phukuile 


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