It’s comforting– in a way—
To know that my world-weary bones will be gathered
And laid to rest among the remnants of other used-to-be people.
It’s nice to know—in a way—
That I have somewhere to go
When the earth tilts on its crooked axis
Falls out of its rhythm
And dumps me off the edge
Into an ageless abyss.
I don’t belong here anymore.
I’m too gray, too wrinkled, too forgotten.
But I don’t forget;
It’s a sort of symbiosis
The earth sucking me back in
And me, sprouting flowers from between my fragile, chalky ribs.
There are other empty bones here
No one remembers which parts belong to which other parts
Or what connects to what;
For some it’s enough to be part of the collection
To be present in the temple of worn-out structures
Scattered across a dusky, distant plain.
I can only wait and have faith that
Surely someone will mourn for me once I’m gone
That someone will cover me with mossy sticks and rotted grass
Even if I’m still breathing.