Afterlife

Eventually,

the breath leaves,

and coldness comes,

our birth suit shed, 

worn out, 

still,

silent.

Empty outfit

but for that which becomes

food 

for worms,

plants,

birds,

fish.

What then? 

Some,

left behind,

will grieve

for a while. 

Yet life’s

virtuous

cycle and circle

go on,

anyway.

One way

or another.