Gone

Another breath dissipates,
Mere cloud wisped by wind,
But for the piece of soul,
And the taste of chagrin,
Respired to the universe,
As dust blows from skin,
And is lost.

Another trace of time,
Like the river slips away,
And yet is ever present,
A ghost having its sway.
But for the loss of self,
Through story and decay,
'Tis the cost.

And what has moved to tears,
From neural paths will fade,
The stuff, the warp and weave,
Which in sacred space — afraid,
That what fires time and space,
Being too terrible to evade,
It will accost.

All these fragments of self,
The stuff that makes us we,
Like tears within a bottle,
Are held back from the sea,
Retold, is the narration,
As love wills to foresee,
The utmost.

Homage,
Tremble,
Peace.