breathing is hard where nothing abodes…

This Dust Was Once the Man, this rubble once the memories of poems and bridges worked by your old hands summers in their warmth, winters in their freeze.

But the passage of days and darkness and these simple, penniless, joyless words obscures the past like silt, and rest rains cleansing amnesia on the hordes

what important musings writ upon the sand now washed away by relentless uniform seas, might have, like celestial fire, grand results, and among gravestones plant the seeds of trees?

breathing is hard where nothing abodes, casting a backward glance over travelled roads.