With a sudden thump,
Heavy with finality,
The formless hand of time tosses another trowelful of soft,
Loamy earth atop a small box
Whose contents are forevermore hidden
To the eyes of consciousness.
The gentle breath of forgetfulness stirs the soft wisps of moist steam
That curl in faint tendrils from the gash
In the rich,
And the ground forgets the scar
Beneath the choking weeds of regret.
In a whisper of time,
All is forgotten to dust