We are, all of us
written in disappearing ink, blood.
My bones which hold me up
have been pulverized to dust in you.
The auricle in my ear strains to hear
the slightest canticle in air
of all of your days.
We are falsified by time, allowed to muse
that we’re in any vain manner
a piece of the thread.
However all we truly know or have
is the ever growing weaker and paler
remembrance of that which we were.
As the drops of blood which we’d lately been
thin, become this silver last strand
into all of the universe’s rivers, wide seas.