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The Funeral

The sky is devoid, of a single cloud, The mood is grey, As the mourners pray, Gathered around the corpse, wrapped in a shroud; Fifty human hearts are beating, A hundred human eyes are tearing, Albeit not does one apprehend, The hysterical cries, pursuing solace; The clatters and groans, The struggles and moans, A final effort to prove oneself, A concluding battle, with death itself; Piercing screams, are uttered in an attempt, To break the bonds, of eternal repent, These desperate endeavours, are rendered redundant, As the chains of mortality, have long since tarnished; Perseverance obeys and permits the battle to advance, With life does death, a final dance, The priest drones on, offering enlightenment, While the mourners receive, deaf to the ongoing cacophony; Do what may, The battle is won, While the efforts are earnest, Perpetual are the pains; The frenzied sounds, now cease to a moan, For human is human,

Sensibility

Those who bathe in ignorant bliss, Might remark, that the most  destructive weapon is, A sharpened spear, dipped in gore, Or a glinting blade, which has savoured flesh before; Little do these innocent souls do know, That, the damage inflicted is inordinately more, Not when blades pierce through skin, Neither when bullets still the flow of blood within; But the real bloodthirsty monster, Which weakens our knees, paralyses with fear, Is none other than the most vicious of beasts, Even with weapons, it can never be beat; Know to us, by the name of love, It flits from tongues, floats to hearts, Consumes us whole, And with our mind, deigns to play larks; It renders us helpless, And poisons our thoughts, Inclining us to act puerile, And irreversibly lost; Every blush, every swoon, Every touch, every embrace, Is not but the mischief of, This malignant sensation; It manipulates and controls, Whilst laying impediments in our wake, Maliciously pulls at the string