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.
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