They came to me first with all shapes and sizes. Some were whole, some were broken. Some were old. Most were young.
Later, they came older. There were fewer broken ones. They came with lungs of soot and rot, hearts clogged with oils and fat. There were more to come, as well.
Even later, they only came older. The young were a rare sight. Their bodies were unwounded but by the ravages of time. More and more came, each older than the last. So many, for me.
Now there is nothing. The old don’t come to me. No one does.