Where is it now?


We've run our lives,
upon the feet of borrowed time,
calloused and hard,
our soles turn the other way round,

The park bench,
concrete, wood, metal,
feels cool against my face,

I look up and watch Helios fade to the ages,
and the blanket cover of Thanatos fall over Earth,

The green turns brown,
all these colours turn to ash,
and as my eyes falter,
my hair falls in the breeze,
taken aback to the day when my feet first fell,
and my footprints first set ablaze the grass,

The soft rumble of atmosphere whistling away into space,
to adorn the planetary nebula of Apollo's dying red breadth,

No, it will not be me who reaches Mars,
My body will have long since disintegrated,
and so too this bench,

Upon a hill,
laden in a valley forest of deep hues,
and long cries from the wild life,

A fox once danced there,
a tree once held protection for avian eggs,
a stream once gave life to the frogs,

Where is it now?



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