The Philosophy of the End

The lump of dirt connecting root and the flower,
Surely such power has ne'er been wielded by something so miniscule.
Is it cruel to force disconnect from a unified being?
To diverge a working force into unsustainable components?
It is an unfortunate circumstance of existence;
We live as brilliantly created bodies of various shapes,
But all it takes to bring us down is a swift stroke of fate,
Or the rake of a farmer during the fall harvest.
We can never be certain that the best is yet to arrive,
For being alive is the most uncertain existence;
History dictates nothing except vagaries taken as truth,
The wisdom of death and the naiveté of youth.
 

Fear and love are the only universals,
And we all ride on the well-trodden horses of their carousels;
Life is circular, it is composed of cycles ever repeating,
And while it may be defeating to reinvent the wheel,
What the ride reveals is our actions can reinvent nothing.
All somethings have all been done at some point,
By some lost ancestor with a brave heart and weary soul;
The best we can do is to perfect what others have done,
And to correct the failures of those more foolish than most.
All of us are connected, while we may stand on different coasts,
The sea touches us all, from waves to rainfall,
And as long as we are connected by this universal,
We remain connected to every glory and failure,
Whether yesterday or two millennia prior.
 

We were present for Peter's denial and the fall of Rome,
The birth of democracy and the horrors of war.
We've been there before and will return again,
In life all things seem like they come to an end,
But the only real end is that of our participation;
Our ghosts remain, only as silent observers,
Gazing from distant shores at those left to carry the load.
Those remaining souls shall continue onward,
With tearful memories of lost friends and family;
For the sake of us all may their tear covered eyes
Never lose focus of the work that must be done.
Death is life's greatest lesson;
Our ends can develop like poems or novels.
The only thing that is never novel is the end;
The end is where action becomes suspended in memory.