If today could be the beginning of the end,
Then might tomorrow end the commencement initiated today
Or, if not, at least be the day-after-tomorrow's harbinger of apocalypse?
Regardless of the variations, the end of events, days, man's life span
Has an inexorable predisposition for creeping up on us,
Appropriating our violable souls when we least expect such finality.
Conclusions, closures, terminations, fatalities are with us,
Just as are air, water, fire, darkness, and light;
Indeed, beginnings without ends would render themselves irrelevant.
And yet, we continue, from generation to millennium, ad infinitum,
To delude one another into dreaming of immortality,
Seeing it as an agency that constantly breathes hope into life uneternal,
And we keep on believing that death is fungible, dispensable,
Merely a bit player who opens and closes a tattered scrim curtain,
Stutters through a prologue, mutters a pratfalling epilogue,
Leaving us suspended between ineffable anticipations and boredoms,
As we struggle to forestall, indefinitely, every suggestion of the end,
Even if we have to abort the beginning of each new day.