Transitory

They said that she was old, her puckered lips reminded of the sphincter muscle, all velvety, pursestring, and pale. Feline with, I suppose, nine lives. Once proud in their protuberance of sassy nipples, seemingly stuck-on, at last they sag in sadness and despair. So many folds and creases, lifeless wrinkles of the mind, a tribute now to those who follow, so fresh and young of blood. Yes, it was all a sham, the visit on this planet. Nothing but transitory bliss of wildly wilting flowers, soon discarded with the hopes and tribulations of futility. Eternity, sweet promise of the universe, no atom ever dies to lose its way. And as we fade there will remain the mist of precious souls, like weightless whispers in silent motion and burned with utmost care, and gently by the morning sun.