Cliché

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Life is a glass
half full of something or other
Yet empty of something else
And no one can quite agree on which
Or remember that really
It’s all the same
Because life is a glass half empty of time
And full of moments
That capture light and reflect
shapes and shadows on the ground
that steal our breath
And make us believe, if only a bit
That moments are all we need

Life is a blossom named Rose
plucked from a bush called Eternity
placed in a glass half full of moments
Memories stained crimson as the petals
With blood drawn from thorns
Droplets that spread through the past
And seep into the present
Strokes and twirls so ephemeral
And changing that you wonder
if they were ever really there
Forming into patterns so beautiful
You can convince yourself

It was worth it

Life is a cliché
A phrase scrawled across a paper
So many times with a familiar hand
Whispered in your ear so often
you hear it in the wind
And the meaning is lost on us
every word another day repeating
Until we remember what its was like
to feel the words and know
They can mean everything if you let them
So you do

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