This Author’s Corpse Vow

I died a long time ago.
(So kind of you to notice.)
All that remains is a cavernous, dark shell
Where many of the creations from my once boundless imagination
Now dwell
They tell each other their stories as best as they can remember them
Whispers of legends
Cries of aborted glories
Prophecies that will never come to pass
Though sometimes
When my dead eye spies the moon’s corona
Or my hopeless ear catches the soundwave of anthemic rock
My limp hand twitches
My bloated lips tremble
A murmur escapes my feeble lungs
Come close and you can hear:
“Murder, betrayal
A so not frail;
A robot in love
A monster in pain
The universe will burn
Who will be saved?”
Then something akin to life escapes this rotting cave.
I died a long time ago
(So kind of you to notice.)
But the stories will come long after I am wormfood.
Of that, my dear reader, I can assure you.


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