I am the reams in vacuum sealed clear plastic wrapping, waiting to be ripped open.
Inside me are five hundred Oakwood, 8 and 1/2 by 11 sheets of paper, of which you write your death parchments on.
And when the deceased are forgotten, I’m the only documentation representing they ever existed.
When a person crumples me incomprehensible,
Tears me into polygenic shards,
Lets me slip from their fingertips into the snarling fire,
Those hands that let me go,
Let whoever they once knew go.
Maybe they do this to overlook an immediate departure,
Maybe they do this in denial of self realization,
But people do not see,
They have killed the last remnants that whoever existed,
And proof of their departure.
Forty dollars a ream, with the gold paint sprayed lightly on the edges for ceremonial appearances.
And when over 150,000 people die every day,
I sure help pillage from your taxes.
The trees you cut down to make me,
Slowly cripple your oxygen levels.
And when there are no trees left,
Then there will be no people left,
And without proper documentation,
You will have never existed.