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Remembering the Day of My Death
There is a day on this calendar I will claim as my own
Someone I loved died on the twelfth of April.
An anniversary of sorts no one wants to remember.
The day noted on a form by one who never knew her.
Even the ones who loved her as no other no longer
think about this day that ended our dreams of youth.
Three hundred and sixty-five days in a year… one
of these meaningless numbers will be my day of death,
a random day I step over once a year, like climbing
endless stairs, but someday that day will be a day
of meaning for a few who loved me, a day of ending,
yet a day of fresh beginnings for those left behind.
I wish to be remembered as one truly alive every day of his life,
one who found life by the acceptance of his own inevitable death.
I seek the edges of life because I feel the coldness of my end.
I will not live forever, but I will drain the last juices
from the life that is mine.