Tw: ||Death||
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Here on the edge of the earth I knew,
stepping like a twig, straying its hand—
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I know you as a child of mine,
taking the wings of the birds
that are flying up high—to yours—
as I clip mine.
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I taste only bitter ashen,
and a burning scent of death in my eyes—
It comes in the form of the wind at the top
washing toward me,
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over me.
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My time to be is almost over.
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Don’t be afraid to let me drift,
to let me breathe.
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What relief
feels like—
death. What is its truest being,
but the humblest form of surrender?
