I ponder at my grave,
myself beneath it, dust, hidden bones,
a mystery emptied of any self,
from an ancient Viking fisherman
or Neanderthal relic,
long gone but for trinkets
and orphaned memories.
What I did echoes unseen;
who I was reverberates silently.
Now there is only dirt. Lungs of dirt,
where once the Divine breathed the spark.
Inside my skull, where the flame
of my thoughts and loves used to burn,
dark clay. Mere soil. The candle is all gone.
Once, there was flesh, then there was dust.
Stuff, then fire, then a different kind of stuff.
Only the ashes will last.
Be the fire.
February 17, 2021