Death has a sting of its own
A sharp narrow pointed proboscis
It only stings the fearful
While it caresses the Knowledgeable
Who else fears death if not that which is doomed
And who is doomed ,
if not that which is far from the truth
The truth is on the street
wailing for attention
But constantly , it undergoes a stampede
But the truth lingers, that is its nature
So it rises, get stampeded, die again, then rise again
