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more
is the occasion

than not
but less than before

washed up on the shore
relics of shells

broken sea bells
that crescent the strand

cloudy brown or green or white
that gentle rub of decay

or whatever might
seek display

jeweling the sand
i keep to myself

jarred away
on a shelf
Dylen Dixon May 11
Life was true,  
in the quiet moments  
between heartbeats—  
simpler than the breath  
that lingers, like morning mist,  
soft and unassuming  
draped over the shoulders of dawn.  

It danced in the whispers  
of trees, swaying gently  
to a symphony only they could hear,  
where sunlight poured through leaves,  
each ray a brushstroke of gold  
on the canvas of our days.  

Life was true,  
in the laughter of children,  
chasing dreams across sun-dotted fields,  
their giggles floating  
like dandelion wishes  
on the warm summer air,  
a reminder that joy can be boundless  
and innocence, a treasure  
worth holding.  

It was in the stories  
carried by the wind,  
the tales of old souls  
woven into the fabric of twilight,  
where shadows play  
and creation reflects  
upon the surface of the still pond,  
jeweling the night with whispers  
of things once lost,  
but never forgotten.  

Life was true,  
in the rhythms of time,  
each tick of the clock a heartbeat,  
each moment a petal  
falling gently,  
tenderly, from the bouquet  
of existence.  
There is beauty in the fleeting,  
the way a flower unfolds,  
petals stretching toward the sky,  
only to surrender to the earth  
in the end, a cycle  
of returning and releasing,  
of growth and grace.  

We walked through gardens  
where secrets lay hidden,  
in the blush of roses,  
the fragrance of lilacs  
reminding us of love’s depth,  
the aching beauty of tender goodbyes.  
In every sigh, a memory,  
in every glance, a promise,  
that we were alive,  
that we mattered.  

The moon, a silver guardian,  
watched over our dreams,  
casting her glow on the paths  
we dared to wander,  
illuminating the laughter  
that climbed like ivy  
up the walls of our being,  
and we danced  
under the celestial tapestry,  
knowing that we were part  
of something vast,  
something true.  

Life was the gentle touch  
of a hand in ours,  
the warmth radiating  
from the hearth of home,  
where stories blend  
with the aroma of spices,  
the familiar lullabies  
of love echoing soft,  
binding us together  
like threads in a tapestry,  
ever intertwined,  
ever true.  

In the quiet after storms,  
when the world holds its breath,  
we learned that beauty resides  
in resilience—the way the earth  
breathes anew,  
how flowers bloom  
in cracked pavement,  
the indomitable spirit  
of nature mirroring our own.  

Life was true beneath the stars,  
in the vast expanse of the universe,  
each twinkle a brush with eternity,  
a gentle reminder that we are stardust,  
that we belong to something greater,  
that the stories we stitch together  
in the fabric of our days  
carry the weight of wonder,  
the essence of being,  
and though the journey is fraught  
with shadows,  
there lies light  
in every step we take.  

So when the sun sets,  
and we gather the pieces  
of our dreams, our triumphs, our tears,  
let us remember  
that life was true,  
in every laugh, every tear,  
in the embrace of a friend,  
the stillness of a shared silence,  
and though the road may wind  
and the seasons shift,  
we carry with us the beauty  
of the truth we have made,  
a mosaic of moments,  
each one,  
alive.

— The End —