There will be no angels to greet me.
No parade at dawn.
No gunfire as my casket slowly descends into the abyss.
I leave behind not only compost.
My monument will be carved into these pages,
by ink-stained fingers the nails chewed and skin taught.
Do words live on?
I guess if you have achieved greatness they will.
Scholars will talk kindly of you speaking from hardcover books in great halls.
This is not for the mediocre though and unattainable for most breathing on this planet.
I have been weaving my words and philosophy carefully into the world wide web. The loom is furiously working overtime stitching verbs vowels and consonant with my thoughts and emotions on to this digital plane.
What will be left behind?
My binary ghost will remain.
Poetry converted to ones and zeros,
a literary algorithm.
Identified by search engines.
My voice will be there whispering from the beyond.
Sending prose threw the ethernet at the speed of light, to the heart of the device.
I am building my ghost into the machine without the use of numerology.
Word by word my memory will take shape forming a body, of work.
A blueprint of my soul
So when I ask what will be left behind I already know the answer.
Me, the digital leftovers of my thoughts.
They will be waiting here in the net
All you have to do is press search.
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