When I die, don’t look for me in the stars,
Look for me in my words.
Look for me in the books that line the shelves,
The letter “R” and the letter “E—"
And in every word you see them,
Please think of me.

Look for me where I’ve walked
And where I’ve never been.
Look for me in sadness, and I’ll be there...
But look for me in joy, too, won’t you?
Since they’re both so beautiful,
And both so true.

When I die, come look for me here;
Words won’t just disappear.

I truly believe that of all the wonderful gifts God has bestowed upon us (and there are many!) the greatest is the ability to create. Not just things, but life itself. The very act of creating/creation is to bring to life. It is Love (invisible and immaterial) made manifest (physical expression) in a very real way. The question to ask is: do my words and thoughts and actions speak life? Or do they destroy? Do they bring myself and others up? Or do they bring them down? Jesus is the Word Made Flesh, the Living Word and Bread of Life. For me, what sticks out to me that I am creating in my life is writing. Creating poetry and prayers that are inspired by the creator and shared with many by words of hope, comfort, peace, love, joy, etc. In my case, what I am creating very much reflects what I believe. When I eventually leave this earth; God willing many years from now, I want my legacy to be that I created or tried to create a little better and a little brighter world and future for our children, grandchildren, great grandchildren, and all of our youth. I want to be remembered by how I lived and how I loved. What are you creating, what do you want to create, and what will be your legacy?

The mason works the living stone
to shape it for its slotted place.
Pale flakes of rock fly as he hones
it to a rough-hewn sandstone face.

With chisel and mallet in granite hands
and flinty grey eyes to plumb the line,
the rock gives way in grains of sand.
He chips and flicks one blow at a time.

His fingers trace each pit and dell
that he’d worked in with his iron tools,
while nostrils fill with chalky smell —
light dust clouds through his workshop move.

As one by one his blocks are laid
by his apprentice at his side
to fill the role for which they’re made:
they’ll be joined in one more arch of pride.

More arches form as months move past
then building up to many a year:
They mark the time of a life well cast,
his mason’s mark left on each stone sheer.

Each arch arises, pointing high
to the master mason of us all,
who carves and fits in his workshop sky —
by shaping, marking us in his wall.

Then piece by piece, the church takes shape
while grains of sand from worked stones fall;
The mason, now old, his final finial makes
as falling sand an hourglass recalls.

And here I stand in centuries hence
to spot the mason’s mark he left behind,
his arches pointing upwards whence
the mason built his final shrine.

What have I got to do?
For this life to become alright.
Sleep, thrive and fight?
Cause blood's all I see within my sight.
As i put up a fight every night,
Without a care if I might die.

So my questions still stands,
What humans are truly made for...
Whether to really start wars?
Leaving behind many scars,
And acting like the justice guards.

The truth is all about the lore,
Nobody needs much anymore,
But I'll rise even if I'm sore,
Without a need for praise,
I'll survive for my own grace,
Thriving in this war to leave a trace,
Even if others do it for a paycheck raise.

some of the best things we create
are meant for others to explore.
we grow too fast, we learn too late,
we leave before the curtain call.
and in the end all that we've made
turns into words, engraved in stone.
some of the best things we create
will only matter once we're gone.