incomplete but not broken

Life is simply a flower unfolding

A hand before you, opening

And you, watcher and decider,

Are awaiting it

And that awaiting is also living

 

So then

When you are lying in bed

Worrying

What are you really doing

Except living?

 

Perhaps you can't change what life is

But will you keep denying that this,

too,

Is life?

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