Almost Poetic

Time as the setting sun

We are going to tell these survival stories on our deathbeds,

and the victory will be in our parting with breathing 

We are going to heave out metaphors from worn out lungs,

and on that day, we’ll truly know what it means to be alive

Not this notion of fear, this notion of tomorrow beheld with arthritic eyes

We shall speak of survival in a language only the dead speak,

while the living look on and marvel how we’ve called ourselves alive all this time

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