They danced as if nobody was watching.
Her hair swayed to the melodic winds
of mid-morning December.
Her name, I believe, was Ember.
Golden strands fell to the bottomless tin
that we often knew as home.
Though it was not without sin,
it was the only play we knew we could go.
We went there to forget,
but all we had thereafter was regret.
And I knew I couldn’t let it die,
the memories we had, the lives.
I mean to remember it all,
everything from our rise to our fall.
And even as I lie here, fast asleep,
stuck beneath ten-thousand feet,
we still danced to the melody,
of the world’s symphony;
The angels that sing in the air,
the demons that stopped and stared,
and waited for the perfect time
to come to life; to breathe,
and to create new memories.
To be asleep today, awake tomorrow.
To remember what’s to follow.
And to tell your children stories
of how your life was put to rest,
of how you were once the very best,
and that your life was a simple test,
to prepare you for your next journey,
and a journey it would surely be.
Each memory told in a single strand.
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