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The Living Body

The pressure of expectant eyes,

the power of an upward draft.

In this downward spiral of a falling leaf,

is the beauty of our short passage.

Obstructing branches are not meant to obstruct,

but to inspire the path of the fallen.

Stuck in time are rocks and branches,

blessed are the dying leaves.

In time is change,

that greatest weapon.

No,

that greatest existence,

no.

There is only change,

metamorphosis.

To count is to think,

a number,

this clock,

this time,

stops,

and dies.

Frozen.

Now I look at the silly stones,

and laugh,

because I know nothing of my own demise.

In faerie dust I fly,

and that’s just fine for me.

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