The greatest injustice of death
is that life moves ahead.
Every crowning moment tempered
by the next, when you are dead.

There is no way to 'matter most'
of hope to preserve your name,
when those who love you, too, pass on
and others rise to fame.

Some may matter longer
yet their essence hides in grey:
a subject for debating,
distorted household names.

Most of us find saddness
but a reminder of the lost:
a fleeting planned out process,
some psyche scars, the cost.

How many wear these scars for us?
How many lives were touched?
Though in the larger scheme it seems
not to matter, as such.

Per haps three generations, or
four if the dead possessed great age.
We slowly fade from memory
little more than notations on a page.

It is life's greatest injustice
perpetuated everyday;
for which outcry never matters
as it has always been this way.
.