Nothing Left

Why is it that so much of human life
Is more sacred when it's gone,
That it is cherished more
When it disappears?
And why is so much of life ugly
And fallen
And profane?
I don't know.
But what I do know 
Is that to spite all that,
The thought of every passing life
Arises with sacred coolness
When the shades of evening
Have pulled it to the grave?
Perhaps life was so unlovely
Because we expected too much of it.
After all, in the end,
At best we are graced with an epitaph.
A few words to sum it all up,
Or a symbol etched in stone.
And that is sacred.
That is pure,
Not the monument itself
But the living, breathing, sacred substance
That arises within the wandering stranger
Who passes it and thinks:
Here is one who was a part 
Of that great, swelling, sacred thing
That this symbol,
These words,
Represent.
But it's rare to find
Such symbols anymore on graves,
in the absence of which,
I prefer a name,
A single name and date.
That is sacred.
That is pure,
To say that one endured,
That they were graced with life
From date to date.
But more lovely still, I think 
Is to die at sea 
And be forgotten.
That is sacred.
That is pure,
To live a life
And let it be,
Let it rest
Beneath the sea.
And you know,
That is what I want
To become of me when I die.
Don't pretend 
That I was a part of something
So very great.
Don't mark my name
From date to date.
Just roll me in a burlap sack
And quietly, reverently, bury me.
And let fishes or worms
It matters not which
Destroy what's left,
Until I disappear.
And then perhaps
You'll know me
For what I am.
Then perhaps,
You'll see,
And cherish me most
When there's nothing left.