They say,
There is no escape from the great plague.
The memorable today is faded like the Abaddon may
Washed away like bygone days…
In last May,
The flood of clouds created an unyielding storm
Now that fragile roof is gone.
The flood of sediment clouded that turquoise pond
No longer as bright as a newborn.
In two-thousand and eight,
The flood of coins infatuated the infamous baron
Oh the choir sang a tragic song.
The flood of sensation settled our primitive wants
Our meaning of life is torn.
Everyday,
The Buddhists say,
Sit down and wait until dawn
Who am I to call out the wrongs in the monks?
(Hint: Abaddon is the nickname of a tyrant you know who)
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