This is the end, beautiful friend,
Of that which was of what came before
And after which what will never be again.
Still, it is there, a faint whisper,
The tides pulled in around it.
If it had never existed,
The future could not be the same.
It is living, forever in the reactions
Of the ripples in time and space
Which it creates.
Its consciousness never ceases to exist,
Lost in the future past of the present future tense.
But alas! The horror sets in,
In thinking of never thinking again;
Who will be there, to carry the flame?
The flame will die with no eyes to see it,
The heat will be lost on rotting corpses,
Shivering in the darkness.
No ears to hear music, verse, and song,
No hands to shape the earth we live upon,
A mind set free into the dying suns.
What then will be called love?