There are seventeen lines left,
in this life, this life.
This flight of flower, or butterfly,
rising from ashen earth and arcing,
to cold conclusion.
There are twelve lines left,
in this life, this life.
So many to be wasted in waiting,
repetition and redundancy,
like all life, all lives, all living things.
There are seven lines left,
in this life, this life,
and wings spread denied the lift,
of air that truly breathes,
or heart that truly sings.
There is but
one line left. Good night.
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