Saige Shrier, Contributor

The faded name, which remains etched into my grave slowly disintegrates
She chips away at it, wearing everything away.
My return is longed for
Sewn to the walls of my casket is a shroud that cradles decay;
I am called upon.
The match, who I will meet reclaims me with a tight embrace–
flesh and bone shackled by vines.
Roots of the ancients keep me still;
I am bound by a cycle.
Rest flowers on my grave, let them rot and return.
She carries me to a sacred place, beyond where I perish
Nature’s quiet hunger consumes me.