Halls of the Dark Muse

I have been transfering over my poetry from old floppy disks onto one of my zip disks, and I found this old poem from high school, though I do not consider it some of my best prose work, I am still struck by the philosophy behind it.

Headstone

On my grave I wonder
what it will say.

It should be something
meaningful, but by then could
it really mean anything?

Though I will not be there
to read it, they will be my
final sentiments engraved
as if for eternity.

Perhaps in this I could find
just the thing to make me
immortal in some way.

But then to who could it really
matter? With time even my loved
ones would die, and then it
would only be a thing for others
to ponder over.

Perhaps it could be just witty
enough to end up jotted in a notebook,
soulful enough to give someone pause
to consider, morbid enough to be a
grave rubbing.

Mayhap I should say nothing and
go out with silence, or let it be
some random thing, a single word
for others to create their own
meaning.

I cannot say what might be
on my grave, it is a curious
thing to puzzle over, for
there is that need to make
it stand out in some way.

For how spectators love
a clever, powerful, unique,
gothic, tombstone etching,
and when you are one of them
you sit and wonder, what would
they say at your grove site.

Perhaps you would not care
what they would say when you
are alive, but somehow when you
are dead you need to be internalized.