The borrowed atoms
Not really borrowed though,
would be taken back
Not really taken though.

The solid forms
would whither like gas
into the blue
and you won’t know
where my head
or my toe is.

Every grain of sand
is like every other
So similar will I become
after I decompose
or am burnt
not really ‘I’ though.

The ‘I’ is so meaningless
Isn’t it?
The atoms would be there
The energy would be there
But who would call them his?
Who’d call a lump of them as ‘I’?

The love, the hate,
the justice and injustice
are marked on the forms,
the marks that’ll go away like a **** with no stink.