One more for the starry heavens above
The grace dusted attic is not gated
No thoughts, no prayers, I am not a white dove
The casket was never regulated.

God’s plan? Did you mean amalgamations
Of all mortals’ jagged wills meshed as one?
As below so above--with pretensions
That completion occurs when we are done.

All creation ends, nothing is finished
It all grows… until the epitome
Of anti-climaxes goes unpunished
Pacifist as I am, I’ll go peacefully

Struggle for the end, struggle for more life
There’s a kind of death to both types of strife