A Quiet Reflection on the Presence of Mortality
An untitled poem
Memory is but a wisp
within the misty tendrils of destiny.
I am ever bound
to the curse of the mind.
Death.
She calls me with her
all-consuming embrace.
She is always distant
yet never far.
Some days I yearn
for her visit.
Like a lost friend
I welcome her with
open arms.
—Destany Stevens
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