Three years ago, someone died. I heard my death broadcasted on TV. There were debates going on, everyone was outlashing each other. Discussions over war strategies versus might. The sky went all gray like the deads all coming to life, white walking the roads with trumpets in hands, playing Dreams fuelled with burns. When the poet was busy writing his Masterpiece titled "Shooting stars not dead yet", a volcano met a tornado and the city went all viral. People started dying the day when the song of the dead's hit No. 1 at billboards, playing constantly on radio's. The other day, broad headlines hit the naked eyes stating,
President declared: National Emergency on the demise of one in a million dream.
Another buzzing,
Dead dreams were found under a crypt with a swollen tongue.
Women killed her dreams, now sentenced for death.
Someone's body found hanging when the delivery boy knocked for hours, with a dream catcher as delivery.
