Someday someone I love
will find everything I have left
hidden in boxes
filed in cabinets
hung on walls
or even buried in rubble.
It may simply be thrown away
and forgotten
as the living must do
with the clutter of death.
Unless I leave
anger,
a bad memory,
harsh words,
the smile that was not given,
a missed chance to lift someone up,
failure to understand,
criticism of passion.
Those memories could never be discarded
by those who received them
and would be my legacy.
There are always two ways:
one leads to dark days;
the other speaks of the lark.
