To soil I return,
Crumbling into dust at the touch of your fingers,
After I have stopped thinking about this life.
A life that’s purposeless and important,
All encompassing and yet a shadow.
And I cannot fathom why we’re here,
Battling it out on a mantlepiece.
Do I stretch my thoughts to a quarter life crisis?
Do I read myself through scores of novels, both silly and grim?
This is about me: flesh on a heart that beats intermittently,
A person with a mind obsessed with my own perception of this world,
Whisking away in embers the dying light of the day.
Wanting like the moon that leaves the sky once in a while and we never notice.
And it is, through numerous reruns into a past well forgotten,
I constantly become one with my million faces.