will this be what remains of me:

the hours worked,

certificates gained,

events attended?

will this be the face,

reflected in the gallery of eyes,

that never saw me

as i was?

will this be the voice

still reverberating,

writhing on airwaves,

spouting scripted speech spuriously?

will this be the book,

writing on the pages

of stored files

lining my hard drive?

will this be my legacy,

an etching on

a customary plaque,

tarnishing unceremoniously?

will this be remembered,

or lost to time,

forgotten,

as so many others have?

parsing the print of innumerable pages signed with the names of the dead,

i can’t help but to contemplate.