Posterity

Each is the difficult sentence, its essence unfolding into the intangible... second by second, wisp by wisp, to glean the question.. wherefore simmers our common wreck? is it lit ablaze, like the final pyre, or let drift like the Viking dead, to know our fire, to know our fire... to reach a common end.. does Eliot bloom now in his final bed? perhaps posterity will know..