But it is strange,
the beings that we are
some skin,
and bones that walk,
some dust from stars,
a ghost in flesh
that makes a vessel
for whatever rays
that may converge.
An inventory,
haphazardly ransacked,
this we burn to fumes
to sound of chains,
and leaves that rustle
until void
and nothing else remains
except this blank
and silent space
that came to be
by way of empty hearts,
in you and me,
like pieces of
a puzzle.