I don’t fear that I may cease,
To be.
I fear when I no longer am,
She may forget to forget me,
Searching for a face,
In my broken mirrors,
And then slashing her lines,
In these scattered glass fragments,
Of my old photograph.

I fear they may print my name,
In small obscured letters on page three papers,
Just below the adverts of my killers,
On anniversaries obituaries,
To be erased the very next day,
By hordes of people,
Rushing for the brazen indelible mark,
On their finger nails,
Auctioning their souls once more.

I fear she may behold,
In her frozen moments,
My scarred face,
That has turned to dust,
Long after mother stood alone,
On that solitary window,
Awaiting my, never to be, return.

I fear the kid,
Who grew tormented by poking bunkers,
And watched his sister molested,
By the dark uniform, blacker heart, gun trotter,
Growing up in rage and fury,
Aiming a pebble,
At the unbridled brute,
Who then unlatches, aims at his head,
And pronounces ‘one more gone!’

I fear my dreams living in my heart,
Long after I have ceased to be,
Long after I have turned to earth,
In the bosom of the same soil.