less than fine

who can speak for you, little one?
of your little hands and little feet
stretching out for a world
full of air you will never taste
full of people you will never meet

a dream to the potter, the perfect shape
a palette to the painter, a muse of innocence
you never inspired more; the hearts of those
who only wanted to love you for all you could be
and live, now, in the consequence.

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