Nobody's going to know my name

 Nobody's going to know my name 

years from now

whether I write these words

or let them slide off

the page into

oblivion.

What difference does it make,

really? Who am I writing for

anyway, if not for myself,

to find out what

I'm thinking in this moment

and the next?

I guess there is always

the fear of disappearing,

of vanishing from view,

of no one ever remembering

that once I was alive

and breathing and feeling

the pulse of life.

It's so strange to think

of leaving this world

without a trace of my

existence--except for

a headstone--to mark

the span of my life

on earth.

We become like dust

as the Bible says,

tiny specks of dust

that dance in the light,

ghosts of who we were,

memories of a life once lived,

forgotten,

except for the words

we leave behind.