Race To The Finish Line Poem by Jason C. Brown

Leaves are prettiest in autumn when they are
dying, competing for remembrance,
their brilliant blood-crimson and ochre bursts
like gasps, echoing,
'See me, see me-
I was here'-

'Who will remember me when I'm gone?
Will I be forgotten? ', fears humanity.
These are grave concerns.

Hunger for immortality seems futile-
most of the time I feel I hardly
matter; not in a sad way. There
is peace in anonymity
among the bevy of billions birthed before,
the many millions who will die after-
a satisfying solace that I'll have played my part.

Marilyn Monroe isn't privy to her legendary
imprint on the popular conscience.
i will be unaware of my lack thereof.
We're even.

Jason C. Brown