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..
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