Oppenheimer

Twenty-three years from the present
I will leave my husk,
take my soul as painfully as allowed,
so as to let me know of my importance
because all important people die slow, painful deaths
to show they are recognized by one god or another.
I will make my all-too-soon exit
having defeated every mountain,
dried every body of water,
rooted any trees left by my brothers,
crushed houses of those known and unknown,
ended lives too long and not long enough,
made rulers and kings and presidents put lips
to my enormous, calloused feet,
created large, terrifying pink, blue, and gray toadstools above
wide eyes, beaded brows, wrinkled foreheads,
exposing the vitality of writers
of verse, diction, song, prophecy.
"The one who tried to conquer all,"
future liars and their media will exclaim,
"has finally been conquered!"
And I will laugh at false exclamation,
for they will make sure
my victory will be finalized.