Black Poetry Murder Poem by Blanche Hardin
Black Poetry Murder
They lie there dead,
A bullet to the head.
This knife in hand,
Their last stand.
Murderer's threatening breath,
The victim's death.
Midnight turns to every night,
while I seek a death to end this fight.
The times they kill,
to receive the thrill.
They have left an empty shell,
Unworldly ticket to Hell.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
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7/28/2025 4:36:38 PM # 1.0.0
