People find it funny when I tell them
that I am going to live forever.
Not in the wilting flesh clinging to my
bones like icicles to trees in winter,
No, that will fall from me soon after
I leave here physically.
Not in the small fingerprints left in the
fabrics of the people I have encountered,
No, they too will die and leave behind nothing
but dust and ashes.
But you here, reading me know, would you be
so quick to forget me if I told you all of life’s answers?
I should hope not, but I’ll keep you guessing anyway.