To Deny The Death
To slay is to deny the real deaths,
The realistic death is a cosy affair,
Feeling down the hill and country
A certain pleasure from a nature.
The traits to occupy the counting
Are many and varied due to taste,
As attributes of the soul and treasure
Are abating this very minute.
The disasters have spoken, a little
Like death in all its foraging,
Needing the whole goal like weather
In this reading happiness.
A book is to be a book in all piety,
In deeds a man speaks of gruesome
Pleasures that sort the soul out,
Like a soul that defends itself with plight.