Create to live forever, so they say
Heedless of the mortal wounds of fads, trends, tastes
(And the certainty of offending tomorrow with your yesterday)
Words endure, pictures a thousand times more
Don't be dissuaded by unpopularity
Produce for its own reward;
Someday, somewhere, someone will get It.
And the frozen shards of You within
Will rouse and rise again
Like cryogenics without the runoff
Hail, the returned Creator,
Without the grotesqueries of life to mar their divine name!
But a bitter irony blocks the way:
You will never be immortalized
If your mummifiers are mortals
Intent on their own extinction.
And a lone, gnarled pine
Twisting sedately in millennia of morning breezes,
Will long outlive the fools who buried themselves
Without first learning to breathe.
Better create for amoeba instead!