Nine, A Poem.

Nine. Nine. Nine. Nine.

My favorite number is number nine.

But in this case nine equals time

And if nine is time then what has happened with mine?

 

If time is nine

And in that time of nine mine was alive

What would my nine alive provide?

 

Mine, provide?

More like collide.

Or even better, survive.

But better than survive, die.

 

Die, death, life.

To die but to also have life.

A death to an old way of strife,

And to live with new reasons to cry.

 

To cry of deep happiness.

Hmmmm.

Happiness.

What a weird feeling of non-oppress.

What a foreign concept.

What a weird thing to experience after death.

 

The joy of life.

Hmmmm.

Joy.

What an aggressive burst to express.

To undress all former feelings of stress.

To lie naked in pure uplifting copiousness.

 

The love of every day.

Hmmmm.

Love.

Something unfelt for what feels like decades.

When the day does not just fade

But instead cascades while beauty displays.

 

The nine that time has provided has given life.

The death, a necessary fear to walk through to get here.