Village.
Old man going. To die.
The mother saw that and did the final rituals.
Seeing this as intentional superstition, the village crowd asked for kithusi and struck at people.
Barbaric nature.
The old man died though.

Still, it is of machine, and not all can be viewed close to us, except the poetry, in any form, and with machine generation, it hits hard somewhere deep inside the soul.
Who are you in the middle, ignored all the time, and it was accumulated for the vengeance, and the third persons are the ones who did the muddle, and the ruin is caused by this nonsense, and why regret now, oh little bird? Who am I to you though?

Junior is he, and his life is at stake. He searched for the soul to lean his shoulder, and there he blurted out his feeling, loud and clear, indirectly. I was there like a wall, getting his wording, nodding a bit, smiling loud, accompanying till the dawns, and our legs out, swells, eyes drained, head swirled. We wind up, and lost in the crowd. We haven’t met after that.

Farce, Drama.

MOCKPOET. IT IS
Filtered, perfect smile,
Crumbs on the real keyboard
Just beyond the frame.

He is good with words, you know. It goes like that.