Prick of a Pin

At the prick of a pin,
The poet in me gone.
It leaves like the drop of blood,
dripping from my finger.

As I squeeze for more,
It seeps out like the blood from my finger.
The blood from my finger,
Leaving quicker now than ever.

Death is upon me,
Upon my finger,
Upon the poet in me,
Death is upon us all.

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