She Poem by Al J. Cuesta

The day she was born she was diagnosed with the same condition we all share,
Death.
Days passed and she lived on sharing.
Weeks passed and she lavished pure passion in her stare.
Years passed and she learned how to stand up strong.
Decades passed and she had listened to every tale and every song.
A century passed and time started a'ticking down.
Hours passed and she remembered.
Minutes passed and she cried a river.
Seconds passed in serene silence.
A never-ending moment passed in peace.
The day she died she was celebrated for what she represented,
Life.