In the beginning
there was a single name
for everything,
and everyone was glad.
You know how it
turned to individuality?
Men presumed they
own their memories.
When in truth it was
all along death who does.
We lease our names from Life,
and pay it off to Death.
No one ever owned anything
YOU ARE READING
Albeit flawed,
PoetryI was basking under the sun-the waves muffle the sound of my breathing; and I bury myself with cautionary confidence in the sand and with it the memory of your four faces. How can something lethal be life-restorative?
