In the blink of an eye,
This mediocre memory shall die,
A transient, trivial tincture of a testament to thought,

Not even the ephemeral Butterfly,
Will be wont to cry,
At the tragedy the flap of its wings has wrought,

With the force of a non-existent hurricane,
And a grace that seems truly arcane,
It leaps to my ear and whispers; 

‘Immortality lies not in the reflection of a man’s eyes,
But in the soil of his mind.’

Ah, but these words are my own,
Never studied, often thrown,
Thrown about until the time of this logophile’s demise,

The novel that exists within my head,
Rendered worthless and ripped to shreds,
Solely rooted in my own personal library,

So, prithee, Butterfly, flap your wings,
Let this unremarkable thought be subject to the hurricane it brings,
Devoid of grandeur and deluded in sight,
This mediocre memory shall die in the blink of an eye.