~ by Aconitum-Napellus

I was wrong and nothing cracked

but every moment moves away

from the sharpest watershed for you.

A birth, a building, a star filled slew of life – 

and then the slowest winding down.

At last the end. Your death a crease.

A fold wherefrom this slides, and that,

back to living, or here to the afterwards

where we are left,

our faces turned to Easter Island masks,

and after becomes an empty stretch,

an everlasting fall.

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