Memento Mori

The beating of the heart, a clock,

Breathe in, breathe out,

Each day a memento mori,

The calendar page, having done its due,

Fluttering, leaf-like, to rot in the

Dark and fertile soil where we keep

The remnants of your youth,

Smelling of loam and sea foam,

Like your grandmother’s old room,

Or like the dust after a rainstorm,

Like the sea at high tide,

Or like the dampness of decay

That the cherry blossoms undergo,

When they fall, pink and perfect,

To their untimely demise.


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A poet driven by the quill, a dreamer of impossible dreams, a lover of that which the world has deemed unlovable. We're all stories in the end. This is mine.

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