I realize that one day I will cease to be,
As Keats recognized umpteen years before now,
But he knew himself and he didn't know me,
And when Earth spins without me, I'd like to know how.

Will each of my thoughts sink into living minds,
Corrupting the dreams of the children below?
Will every idea then reside in the sky,
Polluting the night with a whimsical glow?

Will my memories be seen through strangers' eyes
Who happen to walk past upon my dead hour?
Will each feeling be honed in on by passersby?
Will each beauteous moment draw up a new flower?

When death is so honest and ugly a thing,
I say truthfully, I don't want to let go.
But e'en on the large chance that death won't grant me wings,
Can I honestly say that I'd first see you slow?