《Dark Poetry》(XLVIII) Light
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Many people predict that death is like sleep, but it's not. Death smells of rain and sunlight. Sunlight that seeps through the crystal-like droplets to form colour.
Everywhere.
It shoots across the clouds like a splash of paint. It's not a rainbow — rainbows are faded and dull. But this is rays of eternal light, blinding everything. There is hope, there is reason in the colours. They are unfathomable, and I see brilliancy.
I see the ability to be forgiven again.
~Angelica York, Complicated Love
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