In the end, will these words
of mine consume me?
Or will it be the worms?

When I go I hope
it’s through my own creation.
My final work
my final gift to the world.

No one
can take it away from me
I’ll use my last warm breath
on a rhyme, if need be.

Mourn not me but instead
what came of my fingers.
We all know it’s what outlives us
fucking alphabet soup.