They said that she was old,
her puckered lips reminded
of the sphincter muscle,
all velvety, pursestring, and pale.
Feline with, I suppose, nine lives.
Once proud in their protuberance
of sassy nipples, seemingly stuck-on,
at last they sag in sadness and despair.
So many folds and creases,
lifeless wrinkles of the mind,
a tribute now to those who follow,
so fresh and young of blood.
Yes, it was all a sham,
the visit on this planet.
Nothing but transitory bliss
of wildly wilting flowers,
soon discarded with the hopes
and tribulations of futility.
Eternity, sweet promise of the universe,
no atom ever dies to lose its way.
And as we fade there will remain
the mist of precious souls,
like weightless whispers
in silent motion and burned
with utmost care, and gently
by the morning sun.