wIsh

In the quiet moments – all to myself

Free; no relation to anything

There is a yearning for release

To a tomb of alabaster – fine marble statues

Set aside by some forgotten country-side hill

A monument of once held respect

Loosed and left; no longer loved; abandoned

To time. Then natured

Whose slow reclamation

Consumes all bones

Returned as mulch

That feeds

The souls

Surely

To

come