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