Slave Song

It seems that who we are
is who we've been.

Each day is more intense.
The buildup grows
as who we are increases.

The load of who we are
grows little fat,
the this-and-that that pushes
our existence,
so just to live
becomes our only goal.

And as our memory slips,
so too our life
slips past our grasp in eddies,
goes awry, flows
sideways to the stream.

The flow returns
like sick dogs to their vomit.
So we die.

The facts that were our life
go up in smoke,
an offering to God,
or so we hope.
In any case,
all flesh is burned away.

The ashes that are left
awhile are kept
like memories of our dogs,
then, swept away,
and we,
whatever else,
at least, are free.