breathe in the end of all things
like a warm breeze that rushes away
urgently going to needful places
there is finality and the precious pressing
of thoughts like fragile flowers
between the pages of memory
dead remembrances of frail beauty
a broken reminder of wholeness

and there is no archetype
that one can become
only to be judged by
so infinitely beyond our pale
that each of us is as the other;

as distasteful as it seems
we cast the same shadows
distant you and fallen i,
in His all consuming light…