Poet of the River
There is a plague that sweeps this land.
From its raging rivers, to its desert sand.
It hides in the shadows,
Yet plane in sight.
Gone like an illusion.
but yet you fight,
only to be defeated another night.
Your mind slows and you loose your sight.
And you decide to give up the fight.
To try to win the war,
to save your life.
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Comments about this poem ('Stress'(sad) by Poet of the River )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
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