the man with the red stone

Although I am primarily an author, I have written my fair share of poetry. none of them worth showing but one. I wrote it in 2013, when I was merely 14. Since then I have not really written any poem as good:

 

That one man stood in the lone of a night,

Alone in the street usually packed with people,

A red shiny object in his hand, showing the light,

Sadness had fallen everywhere, because of the apocalypse

On his grave were the deathflower’s petals.

That one man stood in the darkest part of the night,

In front of the door where he died of pain,

Giving people who pass, fits of fright

He stood there as if there was much to gain.

That one man stood there at the loneliest of times,

He remembered every bit of the life that he once lived,

For, he remember his numerous crimes,

Now that one short bloody life that he had survived,

Had finally met its end.

 

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