My eyes capture all the events from a flashing memory,

As though my life were the last page of a book.

I see the wrongs I've committed,

The people I have let down,

Chains of guilt grasping my arms.

Yet while my life is on a piece of paper,

I feel as though I will be forgotten.

Will my gravestone let them know who I truly was, 

Or will it say nothing, not even words etched in stone.

My place already filled by someone else,

Not anybody I know or they would know me.

Just as brave as a lonesome identity,

For if I live long enough, I will tell my story.

This is just a start to that sentiment,

which people will read one day.