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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield

How The Story Ends

Something was terribly wrong
this morning.
I looked into the vestige
of the mirror,
and saw someone else.
A man grown mature,
old,
quick with words and explanations.
It was a seacoast of sorts,
rising from the water,
with stones falling in the waves
like burned out meteors.

I trembled that I was so young.
So new to this solitude.
A parallel place,
here and there.
My being confused by the
senescence of a fragile body.
Wondering why the world
could not hold on to its joy.
Preserve its beautiful rapture.

It is a heartache
to see children disappear.
Or,
perhaps,
nothing is over.
Perhaps,
it all comes back in the end,
and we live,
happily ever after.

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