To live a life without real purpose
And to find no solace in the setting of the sun
Is not truly living a life at all.
It is merely existing
And counting time.
If my allotted time should end this very day
Or ten thousand sunsets hence,
Let those whom I loved
Know they were loved well,
And let it not simply be an article of faith.
When my last breath is spent
And my bones make their way to dust,
I pray there is a piece of me
Which remains above the sweating earth
And illuminates the summer night like fireflies.
Since no seed has fallen upon fertile ground
And there is no child to be told they have their father’s eyes,
Let me live on in a furtive smile or line of prose,
Giving others cause to clasp hope tightly
And keep their heads floating above the desperation.