we carry nothing over with us
as dust, our flesh and bones,
our obsolete forms,
are all swept away in time.
so too are our minds.
lower than insects,
our thoughts die with us
in dirt chrysalis.
in dirt

we who would deceive ourselves
we who would believe ourselves
we can't remember the lives we've lived
we who would become ourselves
we who would transcend ourselves
we won't remember the deaths we'll die