Today I found what was once a penny.
A patina encrusted Abraham Lincoln
faded to an almost uncertain oblivion,
naught but a nearly nameless profile
on a worn, discarded metal shard.
The patina of time roughens life around the edges.
Like pennies, memories are lost to circumstance
and photographs of unremembered relatives
wait in cluttered closet shoeboxes,
their edges curling in the dank, stale air.
If immortality lies in a false continuation,
a permanent relic of a life now forgotten,
then perhaps we are too much akin to pennies.
Seeking a fountain of youthful eternity
while our true fortune resides in our mortality.