Blood diluted from a death scene, flowers blowing-away from a point.
That scene of grief, where it got recreational, and Florists tills rang from an unexpected casualty of two tonnes of metal hitting ten stones of body mass.
Cold corpse and a call-out for a mournful fanfare, a gathering gathered, sang pop to a soul once met, hardly known, tied memorial cloth to the nearest lamppost, took some photos, home.
Silent gesture about, and soft talk of a soul ended as soon started, quickly, no real point now for the dead guy; he’s dead.
Socializing Death, some recreational grief diaries added him to a list.
All those places, with their quickly gathered mementos marking strange spots for dead souls.
Time equals polluted roadsides and weathered material lumps, running inky messages to God and Angels; forgotten.