We cannot recover lost seconds

or souls smashed into splintered bone,

reckless, cruel and savage.

A smooth stone buried in the muck

pretending to be a jewel,

becomes wasted beneath

trees shattered by wind and fire.

Time, born from nothing,

descends into the grasp of weathered breaths,

alone and weak.

Lives lost drain into the Earth,

collecting in a pool of sticky dead goo,

to be determined later,

perhaps.

“The greatest blessings of mankind are within us and within our reach.”— Seneca