I've always transferred my life to letters,
and one day it will reside
exclusively in written nouns and vowels,
distilled from mysterious life's days.
Even before death's event
I plan my mind's resting place
as if there is a second life
in thought's products that defies
the brain's shorter span, and rises
sans blood, flesh, hand or eye,
self-contained, truly alive at last;
like some mental balloon
set on a safe course finally
through unexplored skies
when the hand that holds it
lets it go.