all the world’s a stage

all our moments would be many, and splendid.

each would bulge into the next and time would lap at our heels

but it would not reach us.

we would best it,

always our best

and most beautiful selves.

we would be beautiful.

dreams would be made of us.

we would never stop in the gray

the place that clings like cobwebs in dark corners

places we forget to reach

we would never need consider 

our own insignificance

for we would never be insignificant.

we would be the protagonist of all stories

the life of all parties

the light of all lives.

we would want and we would have

such were the promises made.

we should be happy.

we should force our faces to smile until we thought

happy felt like an ache in the soul

besides, what could we grieve?

we had our health

or rather, we knew what health looked like.

we existed

and some fell out of the race before we even knew we were running

we were already in too deep, drowning

before we even knew we should have learned to swim.

the stories are ripped from us

and we are stunned awake to see the world

decayed and feasting on us.

all of our gods are dead

and we are forgotten

and our dreams are rancid

and our lives are measured by the small and splendid moments

precious as jewels in their scarcity.

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