Layers of Cake

Enough time passes and the slate is wiped clean.
All things are forgotten in time.
Small crimes disappear, larger infractions get smudged, blurred like a poorly developed photograph until no one can remember what happened clearly, and those on one side of the event will have a vague feeling of displeasure that signifies that some overly intense feeling of rage or sorrow or jealously has been buried under the sands of the hour glass whilst those on the other side may forget entirely, and eventually both parties will be sent to lay six feet below the green grass, and the timid wild flowers that are considered by trained gardeners to be weeds, and their flesh will rot and peel away from their bones and it will be consumed by worms, some of whom will suffer some slight indigestion due to the overly spicy emotion that had boiled down into sleepy forgetfulness like a film on top of hot soup whilst the most potent component separated and drifted to the bottom of the pot, the innermost chamber of the heart accessible only by the aorta, but then that worm will burp and feel much better until the gardener cuts him in half with a spade whilst uprooting one of those blossoming weeds.
Eventually the world will be covered in ash and the cemetery will be forgotten when there is no one left but roving bands of mutated cannibals with eyeballs blinking from their shoulders, the survivors of a nuclear holocaust, whose ancestors, like that potent feeling, drifted to the bottom of the pot and wallowed in the darkness of underground shelters and ate glowing green roots to sustain themselves and died by age 12 of cancer but not before producing some deformed offspring to ensure the survival of the species, although the species now is nothing like it used to be, and plenty of those early survivors of the apocalypse saw all of this coming and gunned down their entire family and swallowed a bullet to save themselves from the horror of days to come, but by the time those marauding bands of cannibals traipse over a desert that was once a cemetery, they will not have an inkling that the world was ever otherwise and no more dream that anything secret lies buried beneath their feet than you now suspect some lost civilization might be buried deep beneath your laundry room or the local mall. Like you, they will not spend much time imagining the strange life forms that they may have evolved from, they will do this no more than you fantasize about your beginning as a humble single celled amoebae drifting aimlessly through the hot seas.
The slate gets wiped clean, and whoever is has always been and will always be, until the slate gets wiped clean again, and again, and again, so that ages of strange dreams are layered one on top of the next like the steppes of an enormous wedding cake or the steps of one of those pyramids that once stood in the wet jungles beneath the equator with blood flowing down their grandiose stairs. Those that are now, they walk over the ghosts of those that were, and beneath them, the ghosts of what will be completely unsuspecting of the fact that they may be under the influence of these worlds imperceptible to them.
Dogs, no doubt, do not think that they don’t know. Like you and I, what they are seems to them worthy of perpetuation into infinity, so they hump in the streets and dig in garbage bins and evade the dog catcher with as much zest for life as you or I would have if we were in their shoes (if dogs had shoes.)
The confines of the animal mind are so safe and self assured, why ever would we dare to dream that something lies beyond the border of our own encapsulated consciousness. That would only lead to a headache of enormous proportions, to the splitting of ones self into pieces so that the insides flow out like melting jello to rejoin the jello of the universe beyond animal confines. There is something outside of our perception, distilling at the bottom of the cauldron while we bubble dreamily at the surface before bursting into oblivion.
We, as we are familiar with ourselves, will not remain. We will be forgotten, while, meanwhile, some thing rattles down in the bottom of the kettle informing the next set of bubbles on the surface of the particular shapes it might take based on where they stand in the pyramids construction. We are churned from the cream skimmed off of the top.
If the milk is sour, then so will the butter be sour, and if it is sweet, then sweet, but whether we are sweet dreams or sour, we will frost the layers of cake and be forgotten.
All things are forgotten in time