She sits on a bar stool
In her tiny condo
And wonders—
Does your life cease to exist
When you are alone?
She pours herself another drink,
Cheap wine in a box,
Moscato.
Still, age comes for her,
And she aches
And she mourns...
No matter
What you write,
No matter what you accomplish,
You will leave this earth.
You will be suddenly gone
So what do you write?
And who will read your work?
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