This life is not mine, and that is not yours.

We hold only slender shoots, single notes,

Singular bells, green then dark then silent.

Rough, we drink our joys and sorrows

From a well that runs ever deep, ever

Drowning deep, but still and ultimately dry.

Are we each or are we all? Illusory ghosts,

Spirits fleshed and undressed, by turns

Boisterous and quiet, hot and chill, atoms

And ions entangled, untangled, blazing

And broken, too much too fast to stay

A course, always picking ourselves up

From the rocks, undone, released for life.


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