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poems for photo essay - Death Who owns these still-working...

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There was a graven image of Desire Painted with red blood on a ground of gold Passing between the young men and the old, And by him Pain , whose body shone like fire, And Pleasure with gaunt hands that grasped their hire. Of his left wrist, with fingers clenched and cold, The insatiable Satiety kept hold, Walking with feet unshod that pashed the mire. The senses and the sorrows and the sins, And the strange loves that suck the breasts of Hate Till lips and teeth bite in their sharp indenture, Followed like beasts with flap of wings and fins. Death stood aloof behind a gaping grate, Upon whose lock was written Peradventure.
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Who owns those scrawny little feet? Death . Who owns this bristly scorched-looking face?
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Unformatted text preview: Death . Who owns these still-working lungs? Death . Who owns this utility coat of muscles? Death . Who owns these unspeakable guts? Death . Who owns these questionable brains? Death . All this messy blood? Death . These minimum-efficiency eyes? Death . This wicked little tongue? Death . This occasional wakefulness? Death . Given, stolen, or held pending trial? Held. Who owns the whole rainy, stony earth? Death . Who owns all of space? Death . Who is stronger than hope? Death . Who is stronger than the will? Death . Stronger than love? Death . Stronger than life? Death . But who is stronger than Death ? Me, evidently. Pass, Crow....
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