I could be wrong: It’s just written in sand
that at the end only the purest dross
remains; sole symbol of infinite loss.
This is the final mountain where we stand,
the penultimate yell at the dark land
whose honest awfulness is the last boss
defending the one glimmer, or gloss,
that we might take as innocent or grand.
We will all pass, and none of us remember,
through and beyond the longest, softest, sleep
of the unceasing, uncreated, night,
that each of us began as a mere ember
emergent from an unexpected deep,
a generator of the fairest light.
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