life comes in places, it has times, structures
like a good poem it rhymes, has rhythm
and is often pleasant
I have learned to love life, the ways I can rely on its features
the way it is filled with creatures, pleasing to the eye and good
for friendship,
but death is inappropriate, it is desolate, empty,
I can never quite grasp it, rarely am I content
in its presence
it is a question that is never answered in a simple way
the words of scholars fall short, books say much
but reveal little
it requires silence, and I hate silence
it is more uncomfortable than the wasting of language
a common fate, but yet uncommon
in that when it comes, it is utterly particular.
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