What Will Happen When I'M Gone?

What will happen when I'm gone? will the world remember me? will the people notice the absence? When the professor calls roll, and makes those tic-marks of authority, my name will not feel its painful slice, will it be noticed, will anyone care? The room will be empty empty as a bench seated alone, the sound of the waves come in go out the bench is cold, the warmth of familiar flesh no longer the substance, the embrace never felt, never again the last true love was the crafting, the furnishing the shaping, molding into a new creation. It was art, originated from the lone tree upon the grassy knoll. Cut, severed, the umbilical cord, the only real connection we ever have, the only true reality. So quickly does it end, no mystery as to why we scream yell out, till the vocal cords hammer together the blacksmith smelting the iron against sensitive flesh the paper is gathered from the dead oak-tree the one upon the knoll, and then glued and bound made into a new creation Ink, the blood of the intellect smeared and forced into form, making it all a new form. These volumes fill my many shelves my constant addiction what will happen to them with I'm gone? When I join the literary dead, the paged crypt. When I finally descend from the madness of life, and submerge into the collective dead circus of the mysterious afterlife the ultimate riddle and connection of the unknown. Will anyone notice? Does anyone truly notice them? When I no longer live in this reality, will those I know come inside and read the books, read my own works, read this poem? Or shall I be the lone tree upon the knoll the bench at the beach never to be cut, never to be warmed Left in the Mother's Womb to be aborted or decayed perhaps I should have been spared myself and the world so much... At the end of days many questions will be asked will anyone care? What will happen when I'm gone?