It’s what I wrote (to a son)

for all you saw of me,
all the laughter,
the tears ,
even the venom,
for everything I presented to you,
you may never know the complexities,
or the simplicities.
through your own reactions you’ll see whispers,
but that’s like smoke in mist,
lost too quick.
you will however know me by my works,
scattered in the annals
scattered into folk memory and tongue
replicated countless times
adapted in countless ways
my words and voice have had an impact.
through the most utilitarian of output,
lost of my name
and no longer the same,
I will murmur on,
outliving most,
in the lexicon lives my ghost.