Here where broken pile on broken where
marble stones and limestone
crisscross together in a final, final resting place—
a place for remembrance, for collecting together the discarded,

As though death were not enough
the threat of time further advanced a more fatal blow. Forgotten.

Surely loved ones carefully selected
the stone, the words, the size, its shape.
After all, what more can one do for mortal remains
than to erect statues and tablets, signifying a final resting spot?

Imagine their dismay if, ages later, they were to return
to search for, but never find that grave so deliberately marked!
Or what if, in death, the specters of those passed were to rendezvous
at the haunts of those gone before?
Without this marker—without this label—how would they?

It is a good thing death is not such—
that these markers are merely comfort objects for the living
not useful to those passed.

A good thing that, once lain to rest
those bones, that dust
do not need a sentinel as they rejoin the stuff from whence they came.

And it is a comfort to think that
once removed from our physical form our
essence may engage each other
void of any earthly marker—whether stone or bone in the
ether apart from atomic bliss.