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with frightening intent,
the clock rewinds —
(a babe you whine and gurgle, smiling at your parents)
and fast-forwards —
(you’re old and graying and alone surrounded by white)
white lilies bloom to life and wilt
over and over again,
until you beg Death to hold off,
and, even then, Death simply smiles,
filling your lungs with wilted lilies

and they bloom.


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