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A teardrop to a summer storm
Or more a truck stop to a driver
I do not know which one I was
My hope is that I'll be neither

A petal on a dying rose
Or its bush's prickly thorns
Either evergreen and unwanted
Or finite despite who mourns

It's hard to see what's pencil
And what is written in ink
I know that I'm indelible
Or at least that's what I think

To depart and leave behind
Naught but a ghost of joy and pain
I'll work until I'm deadly sure
Something of me will remain