C’est La Mort

History has its ways of imprinting its ghostly events upon the present.

Like spectral figures weaving through monuments of war;

Buildings crumbling to dust, 

choking under tendrils of ivy; 

and hidden pathways, 

which have long been in submission to time. 

Is anything really permanent?

Is anything meant to last?

Is all but a mist hovering over an inky lake of oblivion

holding thousands of shattered dreams and faintly burning stars? 

We thrive in the summer.

We bloom in the spring.

We root in the fall.

We rot in the winter.

Death comes to all- 

in the end, it’s history’s last impression upon our lives. 

~B.N.