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~
She smiles only in pictures
Her hair is growing long

With eyes closed
Au coucher du soleil
Her voice is dulcet
Her laugh is nexus

"Take me with you," she says.
"We'll make kites, we'll steal land."

The gentle arrival of rain
In the blue hour of
The portrait gallery
Makes her qualified to dream
About a serenade of water
And the blueberry boat

~
Dying is such a strange sentiment.
We’re all told to shun it— to look past it and not speak of such a grave thing.
Yet we all will die.
We all have a designated death date.
It will always be unbeknownst.
Something that no one wishes to acknowledge— or accept.
Death is taboo to speak of, yet it is so prevalent in our human lives.
How vexing.

— The End —