The thread of humanity is e'er connected 
By longing to capture what was done, said, 
Putting ourselves into lives once led. 
 
Reaching forward to legacy enshrined 
Begs a firm grip on that left behind, 
Trusting posterity to return the favor in kind. 
 
Objects, notes, a propensity to hoard 
All that remains of paths once the well-trodden, 
Even that which in life lay relentlessly abhorred. 
Tradition may be the democracy of the dead, though left forgotten, 
Without tether humankind drifts along, unmoored. 
 
Desperation to set in stone what hazards fading to theory, 
To dedicate so much to preserve history, 
Posits the inevitable query: 
 
Will fate take up her brush anew, 
Gloss over my deeds with rosy-gold hue, 
Bury my seeds in the same earth from which all mythos once grew? 
 
For any such legacy to flourish and bloom, 
One must do their part. 
Reinforce recollective supports hewn, 
Strengthen the threads of the tapestral art 
That threaten to fade all too soon. 
 
To neglect this task, to remembrance eschew, 
Placing the burden on those who number few, 
Begets threads forgotten, drifting askew. 
 
These delicate links now in our grasp, 
Will they preserve, hold fast? 
Or fade to oblivion, all memory lapse? 
 
Perhaps ousted in fear, believing it only to encumber, browbeat. 
Or destroyed in act violent; 
Torn asunder, severance complete. 
Perchance it wanes away, silent, 
In thoughtless blunder, borne in conceit. 
 
Should this end be wrought, 
Centuries of labor rendered all for naught, 
No return on that which outstretched hands besought, 
 
Breathless "Et tu?" yielded, 
Be it blade dull or whetted, its object succeeded: 
Pray tell—in whose hands lies knife wielded?