Like all things, it starts with a question. One in particular.
What would be left of me?
Would I be memorialised?
Would I be a plaque on a wall somewhere? A martyr to some cause? Or simply a pile of dusty bones in a wooden box underground? Was I supposed to be leaving a legacy, expected to be something more than I am?
What if I'm - we are - simple an idea,
The last vestiges of a broken dream?
Will I someday be forgotten completely?
The finest collection I own,
Is the regrets I've kept for myself.
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