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One by Stewart Stafford
Death riding a pale horse,
Warned it was time to leave,
No hiding place as dice rolled,
I sank to my knees to grieve.
Six hundred and sixty-six morticians,
Greeted the thing from the sea,
Scuttling sideways down the road,
It headed for Washington D.C.
Navel-gazing, not my thing at all,
But the Day of Judgement came by,
Grabbing my phone lightning-fast,
A dying breath to scream goodbye.
Firestorms, tsunamis, the dead resurrecting,
The sun shattered into nine,
Winds that flayed skin from bone,
Jester bells at dawn's last shine.
© Stewart Stafford, 2022. All rights reserved.
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