Span

Screaming into life and breath

The banshees have got nothing on you

all days numbered linear and in a neat row

each year a milestone if you care to appreciate the depreciation of it all

a prison of comfort for some or chamber of horrors for some seasons of meaning

no guarantee of anything but the minute you ride in on burdened with woe and fear

holding fast to the fixation of each new dawn fending off the reaper and the gatekeeper

until one day the vessel breaks, the heart stops, the flooding sweeps away the breath caught in your throat

and the windpipe dreamer splits open revealing the grain of sand for each life lived

Life is indeed beach

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