So little validates true self,
Collecting memories like dust upon a shelf.
Some embellished, some precise,
What can one leave to signify their life?

It isn't money
Though some wouldn't agree
For it can't span the distance of eternity.
And it isn't beauty, for that's subjective at best.
So, what does life say
when the bodies laid to rest?

This presses me as I step through my day.
What pieces of me are worth giving away?

What is real?
What transcends this flesh of mine?
It must be the emptying of the soul
While there's time