Not Quite the End

We began as hopes, albeit scattered,
fireflies on waning crescent nights,
trespassing the earmarks of expectations.

Through the foliage, the young sunbeams scatter,
makes me wonder,
if the casket needs to be put away-
the wooden one, made of our flesh, fantasies and fortunes,
till the fireflies we again become.

I mistook premonition for perpetuity;
Need fostering, not funeral,
The cliche ends,
the fable has been conceived

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