she’ll die young.

several times — it can’t be helped.

she’ll wake up in the morning and die,

being reborn in the hours between burial

and bedtime.

she knows it must be so.

every minute, then,

between dying and dreaming,

is velvet red,

moss green

and deep cerulean.

she flies over a wintry moon

with flocks of wild geese;

charms dragons into politeness;

frees innocent prisoners.

nothing is impossible

if she can keep believing.

which, many days,

is the hardest part

of her adventures.

she knows she’ll die young —

she fights by living —

sometimes breathing is all

she can do.

but she doesn’t give up.

so long as one breath

follows another,

she can live a thousand years

in a millisecond.

strangers often become friends;

so it shall be with her.

she’ll die young.

many times.

it can’t be helped.