Jam Jars

Imagine if Death were a child,
A curious collector of things,
Of the fireflies flickering deep in our souls,
Kept in jam jars with polka dot trims.

Indexed, and ordered, and filed,
An exquisite, unparalleled trove,
An existential menagerie, if you will,
Indiscriminate, eclectic, and bold.

And the stories that she would amass,
Vast tomes atop dust laden shelves,
The penned trinkets and temporal titbits of man,
Bedtime tales of creation itself.

There would be quiet, unassuming ones, ones driven by love,
There would be ones that stood out from the rest,
There would be tragic ones, ones that would go forever unsung,
But the simple, honest ones would be the best.

Every jar, every soul, every book, every tale,
An epitaph for the universe known,
Her museum a beacon for those passing over,
Calling them, guiding them home.

Imagine if Death were a child,
She’d be lonely, she’d be lost and afraid,
But as she toed through the interminable dark after life,
Her jam jars would light up her way.

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