WHAT I LEAVE BEHIND

A hundred years from now

I write because the world is cold, And I will leave before the dawn, I leave my name in words I hold, For souls who feel they don't belong. A hundred years from now they'll see, My books upon a dusty shelf, They'll know the man I used to be, And find a piece of me themselves. I leave my name, my books, my heart, To those who wander in the dark, My words will heal what falls apart, And leave a everlasting mark. So when I'm gone and fade to gray, My voice will speak through ink and rhyme, They'll know I loved along the way, And left my soul to heal their time.