There is no change, no plan, no amputation,
No nurse with power to heal,
None to take us by the shoulder
to look us in the eye and warn
of danger there inside
this fascination to wring every ounce of life
from this slow death.
There is no hope of change, no coming back.
This death will come, must come.
Is it not better to accept this death, this dying,
than suffer the long wait
and close our eyes and ears to those
who shake their heads
at our fascination with love and life
that turns to hate and death?
Is it not better to lose a hand than lose our souls?
We twist soft hearts, all love,
all softness of care for what remains,
until the hardness, the holding, the grasping
exhausts us,
and only then release this stranglehold
on what was never meant to be so hard,
this twisted love, this desire, this greed,
to keep what we thought was ours,
that twists our selves, our humanity,
into shapes unmeant to last.
“At least he went quickly,” they say.
“At least he didn’t suffer long.
What a blessing, really,” they whisper,
even while our hearts break
at what is gone, forever lost,
this life we thought would never die.
~ Alice Finnamore, 2025
Dream Bringer’s Studio 
Beautiful ❤️🔥
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