We are confident, so sure of our
time, the period.
Like a hubristic Grecian who
never imagined their marble statue
cracking off at the most vulnerable
bits-

In this certainty we etch
and sketch
dripping ink into the thirsty pages
of permanence and
hoping the feathers of ourselves
will last.

But they float away on the wind.

I thought I was an era,
bookmarked by the significance of
my own existence.
Then, the storm of reality reminded me,
that none of it will last.

Sand,
water,
but mostly
time
drip and scrape at who I’ll be-
if remembered
but
at
all.

None survive
erasure.