Dying Claim

It could happen as this
Found or cloned, I am here
My face breaks, the tight drops
Clench beside my open mouth
Inside the valleys of wrinkle
And wrought, often sought
I bear this for you
A dream your expected return
Finds me buried in a metal box
Though you are all but buried
The tide cannot wash you, the winds
Cannot claim what has long since
Hidden you.
How cruel is this, that these
Wide eyes still look for you in me.