Everything is a kind of dying.

That's the beauty of it.

There is no escape,

Only the beginning, middle and end

Like a book or movie

Like a fly or a coffin which deteriorates till it rots itself to shards beneath the earth.

Everything must die.

One day you will be a shroud and as will I.

We are like the sunflower seed that sprouts and blooms and wilts

And the rain that comes and goes and comes anew again.

We will be and we will not and this, my dear,

Is the story.

It's how it has been and will be.

This, my dear, is what we are made of.

What dreams are made of.

Why do I waste my time worrying about things that hardly matter?

Why do I waste it with overwhelming terror for things that I only imagine,

Dreams which seek only to destroy when

There are so many prettier things to see?

Everything is a kind of dying and

So am I.

As are you, friend, stranger, poet by being existent alone.

Let yourself be.

Let yourself heal.

Let yourself rest.

Let yourself dream.

Let yourself breathe.