Palimpsest

PALIMPSEST

The palimpsest of life leafs ever hastening by

Page after scouring page erasing the semblance of reality

Until only treasured memory remains.

As time effluxes each studied page

What of the final turn, when all is memory alone

And the future but a full stop?

When the tome is closed for the last time,

Is that an end, or is that full stop but a period?

Does the palimpsest rekindle like a Phoenix beyond life itself?

And is existence but a chain of causal parentheses

In a Cosmological essay still in draft?

Time will tell.

But time itself is but a period

There is then, there is now, there is yet to be

Cats cradled in a web of intersecting points

The one dependent upon the other stretching from infinity to infinity.

But is that never-to-be-attained state itself just a single point,

A closed circlet, woven by a chain of circumstance until the final weft is

warped into a scrub to wipe the palimpsest clean again?

To present an awful ... terrifying ... blank ... page.