We all are but, dust. Time bombs; hours on a wall clock of the earth.
As it ticks so, our time lapses; melting into oblivion with memories of our lives together pinned down to the walls of the planet.
We are signs of life crafted and molded for the purpose of good but when time is nigh, are to return to our side for we do not belong here and our deeds are in memories left for the living to survey and judge.
We are a dream come true for many a people; a ray of hope to ignite purpose and inspire arts of purity and when we leave, we will be remembered for what we were, who we are and what we would have become; the memory of our fates enshrined forever in their minds.
We are what we do; what we do, we are and so shall it be even when the earth calls, enveloping us deep in the root of soils, our actions shall be a painted display of pastiche.
Our memories will be engraved in Arts of weights.
We are the beloved of the living; soothing souls and comforting the weak.
We are the pain relievers or perhaps not but, whoever we are, somehow someone somewhere is thinking of us; dead or alive, we are clad in their memories.