Armour

I stood at the foot of my father's grave, watching the beetles march west. Their shiny black armour of bodies, warriors with steel backs, carrying the ones that were lost, bringing them home to be eaten. Praising the things of the past, cherishing the fall of their brothers, because even the dead could be of service. Vines and grass started to creep up the headstone, so I started to pull away the residue of time passed- and the only thing I could think about was if this is how we'll all be forgotten.