(20 minute poetry)

If it's finite
that's an end to it.

I wind my life out on a reel
unwinding all my woes and heaven knows
I have enough of them.

There's a point somewhere
and I encounter there the
Infinite.

So if it's true that what we as men can do
under the ceiling made of glass
why is it possible for me to pass on through?

A must see place and later I will pay the price,
I will look and in the mirror twice removed from me
I will see my contribution to my face,
here retribution is engraved.

I contend that finite had no end,
I am alone in this,
but like a midnight kiss the thought
will linger long into the night of me.

Absolutely so,
but I don't know if that's
a crudity of some truth,
I keep my fingers crossed and
whether lucky heather helps or not
I got myself a lot of it.