In Which I Don’t Know Why I Decided to Write Something Now, But I Did

Damien Hirst Would Think of A Good Title For This

Every plant you see is being born again
for the first time in a year.
Experiences are painted in pastels
as a sort of mirror of a colored dying autumn.
And that’s fine but there is more to it.

The blooms will be born
and exist
and age
and die
and I will do the same.

I have been born
and I do exist
and I am aging
and I will die.

I will grow old and become an employee.
I will get married.
I will have children.
And I will lie in my bed as years go by
and my body and the body lying next to me
will stiffen
will betray
will lose its litheness like the trees lose their blooms.
The wind will blow arthritis into my bones
and I will see pretty young things on the street
and feel regret.

The skin will sag like bark
the hair will fall out like leaves
and the mind will excuse itself like scent
until I am very much like my grandmother
who is a child now
and is mostly concerned with Jesus
and finding me a nice girl.

And I will lie in my bed and decompose
like the trees begin to do as soon as they are born.

In a few months the plants
will have been born
and will have lived
and will have aged
and will have died.

And in a few decades or a few hundred years I
will have been born
and will have lived
and will have aged
and will have died.

The wind blows leaves and years off just the same way.

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