If he thought about it at all
he probably thought himself akin
to Johnny Appleseed, casting his seed
and being fruitful in every sense,
but some might say he was more
Attila, a Hun pillaging where he could
then moving on, his prizes claimed
the emotional wrappings discarded.
Of course we can never know which
for some secrets unless exposed
do follow you to the grave,
and supposition is as likely
illusion but possibly truth instead.
But for the orphans he left, known
or never known, there is a strange
potential sense of family, a kinship
born of a common genetic thread
that may be discovered only
years later when the story,
like his body, has fed the soil
in which it was finally placed.