His symptoms swarmed like flocks of angry birds.
With no place to perch they partied, piercing
with tiny beaks, scratching with angry claws
creating the illusion that the confusion was in his head.
The only absolute certainty at the beginning is the ending.
What happens in between is sliced into units
of time that we play, like a game, one card at a time.
There is an illusion that we can do whatever we
choose but in the hustle of surviving, we lose sight of
the blight called death. It spies on us from afar
seasoning our days with dashes of premonition of
coming face to face with the abundance of all that we
cannot know.
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