Everlasting Mirth

When I die, I will not be placed beside my pen,
nor will my soul dwindle on this petty earth.
Both will rise, one in glory, the other in fame,
and all will share in my everlasting mirth.

To my dirge, pen strokes will do a final dance,
words that kept me afloat, will no longer wade.
In death, profundity shall be enhanced,
yet I will be forgotten, as the ink eventually fades.

The portrait of myself, painted with caliginous words,
will be placed upon my headstone, in a grassy heap.
Forever I'll lay somber, where I've been interred,
for what in life I've sown, I shall eternally reap.

Tattered pages will not outlive this web I've woven,
within these pages my woes are temporarily dispelled.
Never will fame surmount the ties of this poetic brethren,
nor will death separate me from the bonds I've upheld.