There is nothing new under the sun,
especially on a morning when the clouds
turn the world a shade of gray,
blotting out all sense of warmth
as the skin becomes blistered and fragile
against the sharpness of Winter’s bite.
One more step closer
to the yawning grave
that waits with perfect patience.
Everyone will die in the end.
The reaper has no worries
while going about such a simple job.
Batting a thousand with pinpoint precision.
He just hit another one out of the park.
There is no way to pitch around this guy.
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