Is to be breath-taken upon your last breath,
Is to still recall the joy
of lying on your back, laughing,
in the meadow.
Even when you will never lie there
Again
Is to sing out melodies
of stormy seas, sailing,
into dreary dreams.
Even when the words are lost
Forever
Is to lose grip and tumble out
of reach, caught by a bed of clover,
begin to cry.
The columbine, bent around you,
Begin to heal
Is to scream secrets
upon secrets, into the waterfalls,
wishing never to grow up.
Even when they already
Have
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