a page of poetry

on death

it is far easier to die over and over again

than it is to die only once.

the man who dies over and over again

forgets his honor –

loses his dignity –

rejects his values –

slowly chipping away at his moral character.

a death of the soul,

if not of the body.

if the survivor loses herself in a thousand tiny concessions, justifications, excuses,

can she truly be named a ‘survivor’

if the best parts of her did not survive?

to die only once is the feat of the noble,

stubborn

principled

unyielding

and yet, one must remember the wise words of the traitor:

‘it is far better to live humbly for a cause

than to die nobly for one.’

on life

you are lucky to be alive.

you are lucky to hear the beauty of a melody

to feel the warmth in the touch of a hand

to taste crisp spring apples and juicy summer oranges

to cry when Rue dies

to hold another in your arms and be held in return

to feel the wind blow fresh sea air upon your face

to watch children grow and find their way in the world

to stare at intricate clocks and beautiful faces

to read books that immortalize the greats of centuries past

to hope for a world that is better than this.

to stretch your head out the window of a fast moving car

to delicately break the surface of a lake with a gentle finger

to wear a soft coat that cocoons you from the elements

to watch raindrops roll down a windowsill.

yes, my child.

it may seem difficult now.

it may seem as though nothing is going your way

and the melody is no longer playing

and there is no warm hand interlocked with yours

and the apples are rotten and the oranges are sour

and Rue is dead and so too now is Prim but you are out of tears after Finnick, Castor, Mitchell, Boggs, Wiress, Chaff, Thresh, Mags, and Cinna

and there is no one who holds you, no one to hold

and the sea air smells rancid and makes your ears hurt

and the children are no longer recognizable

and clocks are broken and faces too

and books are long and boring

and you feel the hope slipping out of cold, frostbitten fingers

and the rain seems as though it will never stop.

there will be times you feel a razor thin line

between you

—

and

breaking.

but in those moments, please remember

you are here to live.

you are here to experience.

you are here to feel emotions

and soft fur and smooth stones and velvet ribbons

and that is the beauty

of life

on this pale blue dot

we call earth.

so worry just a little bit less, and live just a little bit more,

and make the most of the drive while you pass through,

because none of us will be here

for

l

o

n

g.