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Literature

Fireflies Poem

While I sit at dusk as the sun dies, striking matches for a fire, I look up as my eyes tire and recall your thoughts on fireflies. A hundred pinpricks swarm the night, dressed in shades of green and gold. You said that in their glow they hold golden memories, taken flight. The night had been warm, an Autumn gift, and previously you had sang a melody of lovers' pangs, but you paused, and now your talk did shift. Intrigued, I asked: How then do you know what precious secrets lie inside? I don't, for they're ghosts- You replied- forever trapped in the afterglow. Ghosts?- I murmured with mirth in my eyes. You pouted- Do not mock