Something stirred him to wakefulness.
A certain euphoria engulfied his fulness.
He attempted groping his surrounding.
The hands were numbed to groping.
Sweet music filled the air
Many angels were in fanfare.
He gazed in a sort of stupor.
All words had turned to vapour.
No voice remained in his being.
He doubted his eyes seeing.
What is this new place?
The people here had no race.
Then, flap, flap went his hands.
Great wings sprouted without any bounds.
Softly he soared from the ground.
And soon mingled with the floating band.
Soon he recovered his voice.
From his lips escaped a song without his choice.
The Great Feel Of Death
By stbrians | Churning Poetry | 21 Dec 2022
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Churning Poetry
Poetry is the spice of the soul. A poet is an emotional person. He creates love, hate, worry etc. A poet is a mind reader. He knows your thoughts.
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