Sweltering

It takes hundreds of lifetimes, but 
eventually someone excavates 
my burial plot and opens the vault 
in search of treasures from my era.
They shake their heads and roll their eyes
when their consolation prize 
is my bone-white skeleton. 
They leave me to relish the raindrops falling 
through my sockets and my ribcage.
Sometime after that ordeal, 
I am displayed inside an museum
and spend my days in listlessness,
eavesdropping on the conversations 
happening on the other side 
of the glass walls that become my grave.