I give to others,
Because, like poetry is the truth
In the breath and words I exhale,
I cannot love any other way
Than deeply and rawly.
I reject, refuse
The fear of loss, becoming less.
Vital parts breaking away, a final straw,
Rendering me, finally, as dust.
I won’t be a vase made of fragments,
But rather cloth, sewn with music,
Touches, places, sunlight and space,
A book on the shelves, worn and sturdy,
Remembering the love and fire
That gilded the pages.
And in that glinting gold,
All the wealth of my life.
– Sara Myriad, 2021