First rot, then bones and rags of skin, then dust.
And never dream of ways you can escape
or spend eternity in your own shape.
The lords of Thebes and Memphis put their trust
in spices, bandages, the cunning knife
that takes out brains and eyes. They lay in death
two thousand years, but that's only a breath
by what they hoped for, hoped to live past life.
Some lordling poxed to deliquescent rot
takes their ground flesh as snuff, inhales it slow
and up his crumbling nostrils it will go
and all they were will trickle out as snot.
We pass to nothing. Then we blow away.
Our eighty years one with the fly's one day.