Some snowflake you are
ten stories wide and gigantically
descending to crush this gingerbread city
englobed in glass, special
and unique, like the end of every world
always is. In some higher dimension,
the lovely cataclysm you bring
will be stocked, shelved and sold,
a commemorative paperweight
in a tchotchke shoppe. They will lift
and shake it up, but reenactment
can't cancel the event. You drift,
special and unique, uniquely,
simply every single one of you
different, crashing down, crushing
delightfully, implacably you,
as usual.
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