It is likely no one will collect my things
or retell my history
when I am dead.
Untold stories retire with their host,
and there is no one younger with the fire of a bloodline
to give a damn about mine.
Vanishing is unfathomable.
I grieve my own exit.
How do things go on without my eyes to find the narrative?
So I tell my stories,
collect them up inside the minds of strangers,
and bury my own relics, my atom children,
my tiny stakes to claim:
I Am Still Here.