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The Little Death

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  • The Little Death

    The hand opens slowly
    With a slight quaver
    The wafer-thin petals of a cherry blossom
    Flutter to the ground,
    Leaving only the deflowered pistil
    Crumpled and broken.
    Yet it is still beautiful.

    The hand remains, creased and clammy,
    Under the defiled flower,
    As if supporting it like a baby.
    But the flower is not weak.
    The hand knows this,
    The hand understands.
    But the hand wants to shelter and coddle,
    While the decapitated bloom, dead for hours, wishes to be free.

    The hand clenches again, wishing for the strength to let go,
    To forget about la petite mort and move on.
    The floret wrinkles and disintegrates,
    Forever lost in the wind.

    The lungs attached to the hand through
    A system of sinew, muscle, blood,
    Fat, protein, organs,
    Skin, hair, and carbohydrates
    Breathe in the remnants of that ghostly flora.
    And finally, after years of miscommunication,
    He understands.

  • #2
    I'm sorry but whoever this is is amazing

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