What is my legacy?


A smoldering afterimage lit by my brief life,
extinguished by the tide of eternal time?


A pillar of stone built to last,
yet eroded by wind and rain, until names fade?

 

Perhaps my legacy is less tangible,


Not a monument but a spark, fleeting


A lightbulb shining vehemently against encroaching dark.


Short-lived but struck from the anvil of my existence,
an ephemeral defiance to the creeping shadows of obscurity,

I hope my life is heresy to forgetfulness.


Is it too much to ask to be remembered?

 

What of a legacy without a name?


The nameless have shaped this world, as the architects of tomorrow, nevertheless cast aside by its rising sun, 

Their hands in its soil, their sweat in its foundation.

Perhaps my legacy is to live and to be forgotten,


To join the many who came and went,


Who became indistinguishable ripples in the tide, undertow, and waves of history,


Forever moving indiscriminately, evermore mighty with each echoed droplet