To even begin
With the end
Is an errand
In errantly
Erring
To bend
The mind to
The nuncupative
Limits
Unwritten
Are words
Insufficient
Explicitly
Stated
To explicate
Nothing waits
For you to feel
Copacetic,
At peace
With decedent
Fates sealed
What is real
But a 4 letter
Thought
Counter-measure
Distraught
By the
Fraught with pain’s
Ought to be
Pleasure
Sought out
Like unreachable
Pre-destinations
And preached
As unspeakable
As revelations
Of all it comes down to
Comes back to believing
That here in this moment
Eternally fleeting
Confers any meaning
Upon
What is being?