In keeping with the writing challenge I have recently taken up, here is the poem for yesterday’s challenge.
We are magical. No one can know
Of a person.
When we die, are we less magical?
Are we broken?
Can magic break, lay forgotten on the floor? Ripped clothes
Holey shoes, rotten apples? Do we share kinship with these when we die?
Or does the magic of me, my specific something emerge, freed from the demands of urinating and bills and washing the dishes?
Someday I will find out.