The Fabrication

What you would not give, 
age opens 
and eats you. 

Finally, the fly ash 
was liberated. It carries the 
memories of burns, in furnace 
that was life. 

No android will fight 
the proxy war of flesh. The cinnamon― 
body will write the elegy 
on sandstone. 

The bronzed face, now 
reflects the pain of earth. 

Let the hymns stitch the life 
without needles.