Some folks make the world go ’round,
But others sit and spin.
The legacy they leave us with
Is less than paper-thin.
All they give us when they go,
Their passing barely felt,
Are shallow footprints in snow,
Washed clear by Springtime melt.
No opus to humanity,
Or buildings full of art,
At best, they leave things as they were,
Back at the very start.
All their contributions,
Like insect prints in dust,
Wasted lives just ashes,
Blown seaward with a gust.
Time spent asking “what’s good for me?”
Not “How can I do good?”
Doing things just because they can, and
Not because they should.
When the history of today
Is greyed and aged and misted
These people, for all their impact
May never have existed.

Bryson Thomas