I may not be there at the end of things,
When all that has been done becomes undone,
When the tides run through every street I ever knew,
And the very sky becomes one with the dying sun.
I may not be there at the death of man,
When their screams of pain surrender to the void,
When the nothing that was a something is a nothing once again,
When eternity is eternally destroyed.
I may not be there when the blackness creeps
and takes back every seed that life has ever sown,
When the chariots of flame with their mounted monsters from the fray
thunder forth to carry all existence home.
But I am here now; this, the only certainty life affords,
This moment; this is real; here, now, where I stand,
And as I search the starry eyes of heaven’s face,
Feeling not unlike a single grain of sand,
I contemplate and deliberate, ruminate and debate
the futility in the devising of some great plan,
But I know beyond all doubt that for the heartbeat I am here,
I must make a something of the nothing that I am.