Consciousness Ends, At The Edge Of The Universe
Consciousness, a fragile spark—
Flickers bright—then fades to dark.
The mind, a house of airy rooms,
Echoes silent in its tombs.
No longer does the heart attend
The thoughts that flutter—break, then bend.
The pulse, the nerve, the waking eye,
All bow before the final sigh.
No ghost of thought—no lingering dream,
No whisper floats upon the stream.
The brain, the throne, dissolves to dust,
And all the self returns to rust.
Yet in the hush—perhaps—remains
The fleeting warmth of earthly chains.
A life well-loved—a fleeting sun—
Extinguished—yet it was begun.
The end is quiet—nothing more,
A closed and softly shut sealed door.
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