Fear Of Partial Life

There is nothing to fear, except for death,
and dying, and never living. I want to
sing with the rare and common songbirds, to
smell the fragrant mountain flowers under the weeping moon,
to eat the rarest fruits and bury the seeds on strange hilltops;
I want to help those I can, and help those I cannot,
and play subtle tricks on myself above all others;
I want to scream at the ocean, and laugh at the ocean,
and half-ways drown myself in the washing-machine surf
to the giggles of friends and the chortles of seabirds.
I cannot live the life I was destined for. I am not an open book, nor an open
garbage bin – There is no knowledge gleaned from a glance at me,
no trace of me wafts towards the road.
I am closed, my soul half-buried,
waiting for the rest to become corpse,
waiting to be whole in the grave.

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