A Passing Poem by tiyler durden
A Passing
He sits atop its porcelain
his face red and sweaty
his newspaper welcoming his intuition
His breath hot and clean
his concentration weaning
his body hot and sweaty
he strains
groaning under its pressure
He lets out a grunt like an animal
He passes the stool
letting out a huge sigh
he strains again for the next poo!
Thanks for the reply Charles nad you are correct that there is nothing more to fear than fear itself as death is inevitable!
the ten thousand dreams of flesh are good for a time and fun for a time but in the end death's breath is more solid than a silver mountain or an iron wall
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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5/6/2024 5:57:05 AM # 1.0.0.1119
very interesting! great subject! brought me a laugh ~~Elya Thorn~~