In my dwell on this world,
all the time I’ve been around
as a mere mortal
life a sojourn, a visit,
Death, my hell, a portal
to sought-after immortality;
I’ve learnt I’m a target
avoiding a fatal hit.
Though die I must,
I always feel not yet.
Bullets come at me
as ridicule and insults,
blows and traps.
My scars bear witness
of hanging on the precipice,
Sea beneath, death Himself,
waiting to steal my soul
make me a meat doll
lifeless, useless, wasted,
to be buried or cremated
as my soul awaits its coronation
or eternal damnation.
Someday I’ll let go
open the fateful door
that leads all
to heaven through hell.


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