Sickness By Ben Jones

Death’s score will soon reach one more,

When it claims your hopeless structure,

Weak and feeble to the core.

Its agent like a parasite, Sucking out your soul to fill its void, Yet it is never full.

As you lie there,

Your body is threadbare,

You regret your vanity in life.

And death comes, To whisk away what is left, Of that hopeless being.

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