The Milky Way-in-sandstorm_by Terje Sorgjerd

We’re mere memories,

Clutter and stardust.

A thousands years hence,

Our balance-sheets disolved,

What voice will carry forth

The story’s end?

The corpse of wish-lists finds

Its last respite in ennui:

A cemetery of receipts

For bargain dreams.

These burial grounds

Will keep their secrets still,

Perfumed by apathetic sighs

And littered with regret.

Memento mori.  


Daily Prompt: Dust in the Wind

Memento Mori

The grass was soft underfoot, freshly mowed.  Ismay breathed in its fragrance: her favourite smell. It reminded her of her grandfather, the long walks and horse rides he took her on when she was a child.

For many years after her grandfather died, there were a few dozen smells that reminded her of him. She could still remember the smell of his cheek after a hard days’ work at the farm: sweat mingled with a trace of rolled up tobacco. His hands were earthy when he patted her head.

His scent underwent subtle changes through the seasons: baked apple, cured ham, dandelions, pea shoots, sunflowers, grapes.

Time had been cruel. It robbed her of what she held dear. And little by little, it picked away her memories too. She was grateful that some still lingered, even if only as brushstrokes, impressions, moments captured within.