An odd sort of Poetry

All Dying Things

All beautiful things die,

And all dying things are beautiful.

I never saw it, but they always said my face was quite lovely:

They said my lips were the color of roses.

I’m no fool- roses, even the most beautiful, wither and die.

They said my skin was white as snow.

I’m no fool- snow, even the whitest, melts into a dull grey puddle.

They said my eyes were piercing as the bright blue sky.

I’m no fool- the sky, even the brightest blue, turns dark each and every night.

They said my freckles were like grains of sand in a hidden paradise.

I’m no fool- a single grain of sand, even the prettiest grain, is worthless.

They said I was beautiful.

I’m no fool- all dying things are beautiful.

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