Death is an unspoken meadow

Like victory over a conquered wasteland

Which is to say 

that it is there, 

Always there

But never blooming or lush with green.

Much like the petty party clown,

With a back-handed painted face

Always chosen second

To the brand-new toy of glorious life. 

What a curveball of broken happiness it is. 

To prefer the wonder of what could be

Over the promise of that barren land

When nothing is ever promised with open eyes

And a burning heart,

Is a fault of our own

And a feat we must complete.

Time comes to a stand-still in a mirror

Whether glistening or shattered，

So that the trophy known as the present

Catches a reflection that is

Appreciated a little while longer 

And is too captivating to look away.