Will we be seen for our intent, in the trails that we left, maybe we see our impacts made on others lives, in a positive light, or is tragic loss, merely a loss, a piece of a puzzle lost at sea, or even seized by higher society?

All not very likely.

If the finish is the end, and is all that ever is, would we cease to dream, or search for bliss, even after all of this, becomes dust eventually?

I would not.

Must we always exist, in every etch, and stretch, of every inch, lived over a time of any given gratitude?

Might we only know one day.

Will we rest on stars, and breathe out clouds, will we loudly sing, to the strings of harps, will we shoot hope into our hearts, from the arch of cupids love?

It is a start.

Or will we be screaming, as we are are pulled, by the fires of mens souls, spewing tendrils from the coals, of forever unendeavouring elsewhere?

Might I never know one day.