I’m dying here, this tired day,

Each one another closer to obscurity.

Wondering where wasted words dwell—

On the lips of those who never said them?

In the minds of those who only thought them?

Over at the de-tox center?

Explore perception, experience, passion,

Not permanence.


What will be left of me when all is said

And said? Marble words of dates

With a phrase written not by my hand.

Flowers for a few years;

Tears for a few more, or less.


Eventually, we are all

A grain of sand in someone’s eye;

A grocery list misplaced in a heater vent;

A photograph with a question mark on the back;

A sentence said and heard but never recorded



Eventually, we are all human;

Until then, I write.