What do we fear more than death itself?
It’s that memory will be put on a shelf,
forgotten quickly---generations three,
I know it sometimes even worries me.
Some will have a granite monolith,
or a marble headstone carved with
a few nice lines, a couple of dates,
is that all sweet memory rates?
Books do rot, a person’s papers too,
even the famous are not held true,
only those close will ever recall,
what was private, or personal.
But alas, fear not your fates
strings of souls the future waits,
aligned in clusters, or pearly strands,
washed upon celestrial sands,
children of children who had not met
will gather together and never forget.