The Radio Circle

So much of myself is going to be lost to time

When I die in whatever violent fashion I deemed fit

Only the raw essence is going to be left of me

Grand poems doting on frivolous notes of my character

Symphonies and marches that are empty voids of recollection

Turned to dust shimmering in the light

Absence of my shadow

I'm going to be reduced to filtered gasps

Emitted from my grand esteemed company

I will survive nothing

I will be both absolved and invalidated

Light gasping from the clouded sky

Casting our shadows across the ground

All the same shape

Difference only in size

Subjective to your position

How we will remember these shadows?

They are reduced to numbers sprawling,

in a visceral vomit of information across your screen

How could we remember all these numbers

Accumulating at such rapid pace it seems impossible

To collect and present each of these lost shadows

It would be an insult to their memory

As well as metaphysics