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