We are, all of us
written in disappearing ink, blood.
My bones which hold me up
have been pulverized to dust in you.
The auricle in my ear strains to hear
the slightest canticle in air
of all of your days.
We are falsified by time, allowed to muse
that we’re in any vain manner
a piece of the thread.
However all we truly know or have
is the ever growing weaker and paler
remembrance of that which we were.
As the drops of blood which we’d lately been
thin, become this silver last strand
dispersed ultimately
into all of the universe’s rivers, wide seas.
About Peter Layton
Peter Layton's poetry has appeared in Frontier, The Sheltered Poet, The 13th Warrior Review, The Plastic Tower, Wild Violet and Perspectives, among many, many others. He resides in Lakewood, California.
