Death is walking through a doorway,

And having the door close behind you.

You know that if you could open

It, the pristine past would be there.

But, in front of you is a darkness that you cannot discern.


You fumble for the light switch.

Running your hand over the space on wall

Where it should be, again and again,

As the mind reopens ever memory.

And when you finally turn on the light,

You have spliced together and recreated a life.

The End

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