In three generations, I'll fade like the mist,
Six feet under, in shadows, I'll exist,
My life's tapestry, a threadbare shroud,
Unraveling slowly, like a tattered cloud.

When I depart, my children may grieve,
But their tears, like rain, on a silent eve,
Will be absorbed by the soil of time, As my memory, like footprints, fades from their climb.

Their children's recollections, like petals on a stream,
Drift away in the current, a fleeting dream,
I'll become a whisper, a ghostly wail, Lost in the vast, dark ocean of the tale.

And when their children's children can't recall,
I'll be a distant star, barely seen at all,
A galaxy of moments, a universe of pain, Lost to the cosmos, like tears in the rain.

In three generations, I'll be a forgotten name,
Six feet under, in the graveyard of the same,
A story worn thin, like a candle's last flame, In the cavernous void of time's endless game.

The grave, too, succumbs to nature's embrace,
Eroding and weathering, losing its grace,
A silent witness to the cycle of life, Bearing the scars of earthly strife.

From the depths of despair, life takes flight,
As nature reclaims, bringing forth light,
The grave transforms, a garden does bloom, Yet, within its decay, it echoes my doom.


People, once faithful, slowly retreat,
Visits grow sparse, like a heartbeat's beat,
The flowers they brought, now wither and die, Forgotten, neglected, under the sky.

No footsteps echo, no voices resound,
Only the silence, an eerie surround,
A lonely reminder of what once was, Now overshadowed by nature's soft hush.

In the depths of the graveyard, in solitude's keep,
My epitaph fading, etched into sleep,
An emblem of life's transient call, A fading memory, forgotten by all.


© Plasmagrapes