The moon; her long life.
Do you ever think about death: how
you will die.
The words of passed writers,
do they think about what you think of them?
Is the moment too fleeting?
Lives without contemplation:
light still shines stained
glass knight windows,
tannins you drink prolong it—
cycles on.
The plastic and diamonds have similar spans:
unable to see the end.
Becoming old?
Difficult to fathom the cancer hiding
or the ulcers depleting
friends.
Four seasons are all we know.
We don’t separate the years
with dotted lines,
that’s left for the ones forward.
Held until those times,
Dementia: muggers
waiting— shadows.
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