Someday I will write a story worth telling.
Someday I will compile a little set of memoirs,
Someday someone, somewhere and somehow will stumble upon it;
Perhaps they will gloss over the pages,
Read the words that I myself once wrote –
Thinking to themselves much the same thoughts that
Dripped like water from stalactites onto the moist earth of
The cavernous hollows of my mind,
Or perhaps they’ll listen carefully to the voices echoing throughout.

Maybe.

Maybe they’ll find all of these visions grand,
Or think these encounters simply happenstance,
Happening one after the other with no particular rhyme or reason.
Perhaps they’ll find some profundity in my words,
That’s what I’d like them to do –
That profundity I myself couldn’t find.

They’ll read poems like this,
And attempt to read between the narrow lines,
Stretching the spaces between the words,
Wondering why it was that I wrote them
- In such a way,
- At such a time.
Maybe they’ll see the world through my unopened eyes.
Hopefully they’ll make peace with the past,
Embrace the present,
Look longingly and with undying flame toward the future.

They’ll take me along with them;
I’ll burden them
Weighing down the bottom of their knapsacks,
As they try and juggle everything I’ve said
And everything I’ve been silent upon.

I hope they realize the importance of stories.
Do you think they’d think me some great author,
Some gifted storyteller,
Able to wring from the cloth of time,
Little murky water droplets of my experiences?

And, who knows,
Maybe they’ll remember me when they write their own stories.

And if none of that,
I’ll be forgotten.

All the better,
As with each day comes a little of my forgetting of the world,
And with each the world becomes a little moreso forgetful of me.

Kin die,
Friends die,
Cattle die;
I know only of one thing that does not die,
And that is the deeds
Of a dead man.

I remember you,
Do you still remember me?