THROWN BEINGS LIKE US
Thrown beings like us, to the face
of the Earth, land feet-first we
would hope. The morning grace
is there with light; bright lines
we can follow, at most. There
seem neither directions in, nor
out. I'm sitting in a room where
they are praising the dead.
-
It's not so lethal as all of that,
until of course, it is, and we are
done. We too are as over as a
moment once forgotten. Remnants
of a relic; us. Farthest shadows of
a very fading light. I sit in a room,
where they are praising the dead.
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