Poem By Elcypher_Past

Our stories are the broken songs
soliciting for spines on every tongue
to sing them in melodious praises
But
the pathway unto which they dissolve
-like vapours into the atmosphere
-as of mirages in the heart of mist
are cremains of toothless bones
And, in the end
they rain in cadence
of recurring dirges
that we are soothing chants
devoid of universe
that we're inhabitants of hope
in the household of the lost
If our pasts are but songs
Let's bury our ancestors
in a memoir of encomiums;
a melody of throes.

-Past
El cypher.