Into Dust

My feelings are an abstraction
And my sense of memories restless

The shock to my system is fresh…

And emotions and mental images

Sadness and anger, fatigue and frustration… of a numbness that holds back rage

And all the colors bleeding into a murky burnt brown…

Of love and your beautiful brown eyes and the sound of your laugh
Crashing down in a bloody and bone crushing clatter

The echos fade into this cold foggy morning

Another day, with your ashes in a box.

This isn’t some freaking test.

This isn’t some trial designed to grant me patience

This isn’t punishment for doing wrong

Nor certainly some reward for doing some good. 

This isn’t a lesson. 

This is the plot. The story line. The narrative…

Exactly as the author wrote it. 

And I don’t like where he has taken this story.

But you can’t turn back the page.

Once the ink is dry

and the page read

it is only memories and dust. 

photos. stories. a clip of your rendition of Journey…
And a cheap plastic box.

That is where it always ends
And that is all that is ever left

Your voice, your song

The notes of your life

And the words of your story


into memory

into dust.


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