Death of a Leaf

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I see myself as the moon.

My existence exists and persists so perpetually.

My father is a man named Night, whose love knows no bounds.

His eyes are like rivers—relentlessly bright.

My mother is a Winter breeze.

Her voice is gentle like a flower slowly sprouting from the Earth.

She is grandeur like bitter bark.

The bluest depths have known me and washed over my body like burning sadness.

A mere glance of isolation relents my actuality.

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