Stories are always rising with seeds,
Actions pollinated by characters,
Who spread actions in the world.

Then with apex the story grows,
Quickly or slowly depending on itself,
Having their own characteristics,
Kind of of pollinator, eater and habitat.

However it has an end,
Caused by the age or damage,
Not able to go back,
Just to set forth.

I can see through your eyes,
The flavor of the death,
Regreting the ultimatum,
Fear of the judge.

Your corpse is new with stories buried,
Used in anatomy classes with your body opened,
I can see your liver, lungs and other organs,
Touched with white gloves.

You became an object,
All your life forgotten,
Everything faded.