We can go down in infamy,
With some despicable deed.
Blame it on heredity,
Born with the devil seed.

Or we can do good work,
Even an uncommon quirk,
Recognized in the end,
That we did more than lurk.

In the shadows of anonymity,
Where with our privacy we hide,
Contributing little to humanity,
Except our offspring with pride.

Fearful to speak out,
Fearful to even trust.
Living our lives out,
Only to end up dust.

Part of the fodder,
Of the great war power machine.
With a marker you served,
But nothing else, between.

But an author has legacy,
If we write and write well.
Put it up on the Internet,
Given time, time will tell.