The air I breathe is transitory
and I am obsessed with strangers
It took years for me to realize
that I only last for years
Every voracious drive
lends me over to disappointment
And that is all I seem to find
The soul is a vase
that holds flowers
And the heart lies
when it says that the flowers never die
Withered petals close their eyes
and fall from desperate heights
Reaching out for their life
while life refuses to hold their hand
I was not made for the transitory
These strangers must fade away
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