Reading what I have just written, I now believe
that if I were to die, I will not remember any of the words I have written, nor the words I have read,
how shall I tell it?
The tree itself will live far longer than I. It is lovelorn, it is the red pine that falls like clockwork. Only then would I think I saw this before. Fossils and skull-caps of the ocean, it rapes each wave onto the root-llano, the flower of death.
Kneels, the dark mossy rain, it was finding your bones. The upbringing of a stranger not myself.
How I stir from the comeuppance of a dream, or is it the hand that digs the flower’s thorax and ribwort leaf into my side? Give me the thorn instead, and I’ll stab it in my ribs just to feel something.
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Written for the dVerse prompt: Write a piece of prose (fiction, nonfiction, or creative nonfiction) that is 144 words or less in length, and includes the line “Reading what I have just written, I now believe”.