I posed myself a question just the other night

about what will happen to all these words I write

the hours I've spent on this endeavour...

I know I won't be here forever

so where will they go once I have gone

will the account be closed, the work withdrawn

All that effort under some rug, swept

or is there someplace safe they might be kept

would anybody raise a hand and say...

but then again who'd care anyway

there are a few that hold a certain flare

some maybe good enough to keep and share

Then I guess the rest have their own fate to meet

when the monitor's finger hits delete

a passing memory in the minds of many

a brief recollection and quick autopsy

Maybe there's a special program of recycling

the works go through some form of dismantling

where letters are dissed like in a printer's type case

awaiting resurrection, their glory to retrace

I could bequeath to a writer friend

but would they want them in the end

Will, when the end is faced, the entire collection be erased will I disappear without a trace leaving not even an empty space...

The void will fill with new creations

garnering new volumes of exclamations

New names will head the many book lists

new poems posing philosophical twists

more entries submitted from far and wide

crowding out the ones that died

And moving like a glacial slide

the mass invades unquantified

overwhelming site's capacity

bringing with it a fresh audacity

So I hypothesize an answer for my question at the start,

the solution for the residual work, after I depart...

I'll compose an epic epitaph, recounting life's commission,

describing in detail each carefully nurtured addition

extolling all extensively, with a notion of creative piety

and submit a resume to The Dead Poet's Society