Seeds escaped the earth’s surface
stretched away and struck the sky.
Only to splinter
or wilt
or rot.
Not once will he blink.
Not once will he stop to admire.
Not once.
When he stops, he doesn’t in truth.
Still as he may seem, he continues.
Immune to prayer
or pleading
or will.
He carries on without existence of an end
For the end is subjective and to him
Nothing’s personal.
He is present as you’re dying
But not when you’re dead