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Complex

My hands are gently, my hands are swift.
In this room I use my gift.
Seconds turn to minutes, minutes to hours.
Each second that passes, a life takes a sleep.
Each minute that passes, a life begins to wake.
Each hour to come, is a time to pray.
At the end of the day, in this room, I am your god.
At the end, only I decide who lives.
My hands are gently, my hands are swift.
Should you not wake, pray the lord your soul to take.

Tuesday, March 18, 2014
Topic(s) of this poem: sad
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COMMENTS OF THE POEM

agreed with Noreen.. the way you build it make this poem so alive love it

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Noreen Carden 22 March 2014

Gary well done this is a very dark but excellent poem I like the way you build up the story to its climax in the final line

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