“Dying on My Birthday”

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Nevertheless,
A shameless but beautiful Crow;
Celebrating and flying high on its day,
Elegantly traversing across years;
In infinite sky-ways of life;
All in all ought always,
Is born in a curse to die dark;
Mud to ash,
Back to back;
Fading from blacks to more blacker,
As any fuliginous murky funeral;
A deadly blackened Crow is dying,
And is dead on its day…

Just alike the first blissful grace,
A much awaited wishful 10th nightmare, every year which;
Drastically comes my way,
On the most inauspicious day of my life;
Idyllically never failing to fail it-self,
In eloquently getting conveyed across to me;
Magnificently in bitter surprises of time.
Latent and gift-wrapped,
In blank spaces, empty voices and vacant senses;
With an unrevealed, virgin seal of emotion;
In any reminiscent vengeance to taste,
All in all ought always;
For my eternal sins committed the year before,
Already abundantly have sinned, a life before;
And for lives and lives to go on and more;
Scrutinizing to prepare myself for a sacred sacrifice,
For a fuliginous murky funeral;
Deadly black deeds dying today,
And is already dead on my birthday…

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