Genuine fear of being forgotten,
That is the fear of the old.
They think back on the things they've done,
And see things that they want others to know.
My fears are at ease,
I've yet to grow gray.
The worries that weaken them,
Are yet to be fears to me.
What am I remembered for?
I let my thoughts stray,
The way I treated others,
Would that be my legacy?
A legacy of love,
For family, for friends.
Of comforting others,
Holding their hearts in my hands.
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