this is strange, we’re immortal
safe behind the gilded wall
on your knees, stumble and fall
the closest thing to blessed
in this post- modern mess
yet you turn to dirt just like the rest
so many words
somebody was hers
somebody was his
now we’ve become this
flawless faces fade away
films and photos, shades of grey
six feet down, encased in clay
flowers set on polished stone
left by someone you don’t know
how’s it feel to be this cold
dig a hole and find a grave
all your work archived and saved
scattered in pieces across the waves
the grass grows in the wind adrift
searchlights give essence a lift
the trees asleep, the branches shift