what will be left of me?

songbirds weave a tapestry of
sound across the morning
as sunlight penetrates the leaves…
a cool breeze lightly tiptoes across
the growing heat
and cars sound as ocean waves flowing…
in the distance dancing with birds are
the trees-
and sirens pepper the landscape
with urgency…
day is breaking on yet another morning-
breath flows within me like a sage
i am no longer living
but rather coming of age…
is there anything that can dull the pain
of slowly dying? at this rate
i will be gone before the songbirds
finish singing
and what will be left of me?

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