Sole guardian of my poor creations,
formless record of a lifetime of facts,
protectively pooling past sensations,
a jumbled imagery of ancient acts.
Hollow echo of a life so fleeting,
On this frail catacomb must I rely,
amidst final twitch of thought retreating,
on the faint cheating chance, that mind won't die.

Dead brain-matter lies denuded, useless,
that which defined me will go where it must,
death’s perfection, so complete and faultless,
renders all intelligence back to dust.

Where once I was, just memories of me,
grant me my chance of immortality.