Dust

Life is a sexually transmitted terminal disease,

I know this is glib, but it is not far from the truth.

Four score years and seven seems like a lot,

and for the first score that is probably true.

But then it goes so quickly, you'd be excused

for your head spinning and a sense of disappointment

Pervading your old bones, as you creak

as you get up and walk to the grave alone.

All of your yesterday's folding up and collapsing

like an origami narrative disintegrating and falling to dust,

lying like soft ash under foot,

the only evidence that you ever were.

Big blow, fffffffff and you are gone,

and everyone you knew before you,

shadows in your memories

all fading to black. Dust, we all become.