What the Unicorns Know

Standard

With each death
a tree drops leaves.
After a few falls,
branches wither.

Who can imagine
ourselves unimagined?

But this happens.
With each death
the loss of memory
until we don’t exist.

Even if we have children,
their children’s child
will not have met you.
And so the loss begins.

A face in a photograph.
The grasp for a name.

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