The Afterlife

by Donald Pastures

Our legacy is carved in fragments of glass, the fires of strife melting the sands of time.

We seek a burning glory, an echo piercing the veil of time, once we reach the end of our line.

We wish our story be told, in far off bars and watering holes. To be etched in stone.

And if our soul be carried to hell, under the smoldering steps where we fell, it will be a life lived well.

And if we see our children grow, in the vast valleys of the unknown, we’ll follow as the wind blows.

We weren’t destined for greatness on these darkened streets that made us, but we’ll claim it when we’re famous.