That Someone, I

The last mark I left,
last print on the last thing I touched –
the print of my palm,
defiantly unique. My own heart,
head, fate. My own arrangement of sun,
Saturn, success. Maybe someone
will powder my vanished stamp
with dust and discover that
someone was here – that someone, I.
Maybe they will stare
at this five-toed creature’s ghost
and wonder, what the hell?
Maybe they will scream.
Me as was, wearing the end
of my human form
before I changed this world
for the mist. The last of me –
a hand, waving. Or reaching
out for help.