A perished writer

A writer was born somewhere.

Before they started selling their souls,

Before men became inferior to gold,

Before agendas were set,

Before expectations were forcibly met,

Before beauty became the epitome,

Before love turned into bigotry.

Then one day he opened his eyes,

And was swallowed whole by the yellow skies.

His only book was called:

“That’s how the writer dies.”

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