Dicing with Danger
A push could maim,
Standing at senses edge.
When rushing scorpions,
Could sting and disfigure.
So why the hurry ?
Has your life become,
Empty, full of thin air ?
No hope to live for,
As you give a shove,
Towards your own end.
Pretty green is yours,
So don’t lust on red.
Or, the very next memory,
Will be of hospital food,
Or worse, your premature grave.
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