To Dark Age Graves (first letter)

Every so often you’re dug up in the distant future (an already violated, decomposing mess).
You don’t believe a transfer of material existence is possible. Leather shoes, cloth tunics, powdered bodies — they’re all left to rot. There’s no caskets or sealants. Your contents are naked. They’re rendered ephemeral.
You immerse them all in a strata of dark earth (that strange chemical residue of wattle and daub architecture). It’s a formlessness that smothers when life has no monuments (when nothing is set in stone).
An artifact sits by a concentration of bone fragments (a cracked cup or broken comb). No one living wanted it.
Even Barbarian Royalty are abandoned to erasure. Bled-out horses and snapped-neck pets won’t guide them through an afterlife. Extraneous remains are a desperate bribe made by the living (disguised as loyal sacrifice). They’re Death’s payola.
Paltry sprinklings of ornamentation have fallen through bodies to rest, like a mapping of long-gone organs or the hurried carelessness of vandals. They disappear each time you’re unearthed. They’re melted down and reformed — bought and sold in other undergrounds.
Does History really repeat itself?
You seem to suggest that it never begins.
You’re waiting (as always) for the here and now.