Posthumous

I am not foreordained to be remembered,
Not like the greats,
Shakespeare,
Austen and Tolkien,
Dickenson and Dickens,
Keats and Angelou,
My exertions are that of a novice in comparison,
My work akin to finger painting,
My aspirations that of a foolish mummer,

I’m not to be remembered,
Not to be celebrated,
I am a ghost among artists,
Not yet exorcised,
Scratching nonsense in to chalk,
Wailing from outside the halls of fame,
I won’t be allowed in,
As souls of creative import congregate within,
Myself an ungifted wraith will claw limply at the door,

I’ll pass with not a mention,
And when I am finally ash,
Everything I’ve done will follow,
Off into the solar winds,
And out of memory.