When my breathless body returns to the earth from which it came,
Let it be known that I tried,
In the face of damnation,
With the manacles of propriety digging deep into my flesh,
And the corpulent greed of the contumacious seeping from every open door,
Let them say that I tried,
Inside this strident existence that we call our own,
Where the fastidious prey on the guileless,
I just wanted to be a luminous beacon of intransigent truth,
A munificent solace for those In need,
I just wanted one zealous moment to make a difference,
And as the remnants of me powder and dust into the soil in which I lie,
Let at least one person say that my life was worthwhile,
That my existence was heuristic,
Because if I am to become just another sorry loss,
An echoed memory only deserving of a sorrowful after thought,
Then what was it all worth,
And more so,
Why then would anyone else bother.
Because if we cannot make a difference,
Then I would rather not be remembered at all.