GreyBean

  The first thing I notice is the smell of lemon poppyseed bread. Well, that and the thought that sweat is rolling down my fur. I'll smell in a few minutes, I know, if I don't get out from under this abandoned paper bag and move around.

The most beautiful and horrific thing about death is that it brings people 
together. 
It brings them together in ways that could not be reached 
without death. 
It gives them a reason for understanding, 

I don’t know how to start this poem. 
I’m lost.
I was thrown into a bitter,
moth-eaten
world covered with soot and ash. 

When I cried—
No. When I sobbed—
there was no ghost. 

It feels alien. 
It feels fictional. 
I’m sitting in class, writing an
essay
about a Nobel Prize speech,
and thinking about the ugly truth that
my grandmother
is going to die.  
We visited her in the morning

If she has to leave,
I hope she can lay back in a field of 
daisies,
a river streaming with light bubbles
at her fingertips.

If she has to leave,
I hope she can listen to music
with the tune of the breeze

Are humans born only to die?