Is legacy an empty word?
A deathbed hope that we’ve been heard
a misplaced need to feel ingrained,
to make a mark the world retained?
A selfish wish to leave behind
a piece of self for peace of mind?
Is legacy defined by clicks,
by hearts and likes on posted pics
when my departed face appears
to mourners who are moved to tears?
Or is it marked by works displayed,
by goals achieved or progress made
through debts repaid or contests won
through songs composed or poems begun?
I can’t be sure, for death forbids,
but when I’m gone, go ask my kids.
DC Swanson, from Washington D.C., is a night writer not yet ready to give up his day job. He posts rhymes written by him and his two young daughters at @swanson_dc.